


Burning Bridges

by pantswarrior



Series: The Cultists' Cycle [1]
Category: Vagrant Story
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, M/M, Magic, Minor Character Death, Pre-Canon, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-06
Updated: 2010-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-07 01:31:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 106,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantswarrior/pseuds/pantswarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance encounter with the Mullenkamp cult offers Hardin an opportunity to rebuild his shattered life - but only by fire can a man be reforged.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Merging With the Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2001-2002; essentially, this is the background for everything else I've written regarding Sydney and Hardin.
> 
> Chapter titles are from the Pink Floyd song after which the story is named. The lyrics seemed oddly fitting for this story...

Lightning flashed through the night sky, and Hardin watched anxiously as the light cast two shadows on the stone wall in front of him. Thunder and the sound of the pouring rain nearly drowned out the footsteps echoing through the dark cavern he'd taken shelter in, but he could still tell they were nearly to the fork where he was hidden; one held a lantern, which cast a soft reddish glow about the cave, reflecting off the rivulets of rainwater that drained down into the depths of the cavern as they drew closer. Not knights, for there was no sound of armor clanking - but then, the knights would have been at a disadvantage in such a storm as the one that brewed outside. Likely the local constable had been ordered to send out a few of his men instead. 

Hardin silently cursed them all. Was he so important that they could not wait until the storm had ended? All this for a lone man, when they'd already taken everything away from him but his very life itself! 

"Hold," came a whispered voice, and the footsteps paused, the dim lantern light only a few paces in front of him. Hardin tensed, his hand gripping the hilt of the broadsword he'd managed to steal during his escape. They must have sensed his presence somehow; and if so, they might have been able to puzzle out where he was. 

Before they could act, Hardin lunged into the open with the next flash of lightning, aiming a blow at the head of the short man who held the lantern. The man let out a cry of surprise as he threw his hand up, and the sword shattered the glass of the lantern. The flame sputtered, but didn't die, and the other man, taller and moving more as a trained fighter would, jumped forward with a dagger in his hand, ready to act. 

A dagger against a broadsword? Hardin could have laughed as he raised his hand to strike again - then gasped at what the flickering light revealed. 

Instead of a broadsword, his hand held the writhing tail of a snake. Before his eyes, the narrow head raised, peering at him with glittering eyes for a moment before lunging at his wrist with a wide, sharp-fanged mouth. Hardin gave a shout as he flung it as far away from him as he could. 

There was a metallic clank as the broadsword hit the stone wall on the other side of the cavern, then fell harmlessly into the dirt. The man with the dagger tackled him as he stood gaping, and pinned his arms behind his back. The fight was over before it had even started, and Hardin was stunned with disbelief. 

"Quite an excitable one ye be," the lantern-bearer muttered, watching the other twist Hardin's shoulder, forcing him to his feet. "Filthy rogue. Or at least that's what ye'd like us to think, hmm?" 

Hardin, still wondering what had just happened, did not reply. Had he gone mad, he wondered? Too much grief, too much time in solitude, too much hunger and weariness, too much of being hunted like a rabbit across the land... these things could drive a man to see things, perhaps. But so suddenly? 

No matter, he decided with a sigh as the two men dragged him roughly back out of the cave and into the storm, each of them twisting one arm behind his back. He'd probably hang soon enough now... unless he could break free and find another place to hide. That was a possibility, what with the wild storm raging outside, he thought, but his heart wasn't in it. With the events of the past weeks - not to mention the many months of agonizing solitude before that - there was not much left in life to make it worth such an effort. 

He would have to wait until they were out of the cave to make any such attempt, of course, and so he hung his head and feigned acceptance. As they passed the fallen broadsword, he peered at it as closely as he could manage, but it appeared to be perfectly normal iron. Yes, he must have gone mad. 

Once outside, Hardin gave up any thought of imminent escape; there were a few dozen others standing in the rain. But a closer look revealed men of varying ages, some too young or too frail-looking to be of the Guard - peasants, from the looks of them. Hoods shielded some of them from the rain, but he thought a few of the hooded figures were slender enough that they might be women. A handful of pack-horses, all dark in color, were tethered beneath a tree, and a wooden cart stood a short distance away. He glanced back at his two captors, and noticed for the first time that they too wore peasant garb rather than the leather armor of the footmen he'd expected. "You're not the King's men?" he murmured in surprise. 

"Not quite," the lantern-bearer replied. "We don't slaughter a brigand on sight, true, but don't ye think for a minute we be safer. We'll see what Sydney has to say about ye." 

"Sydney?" 

By way of reply, the other man twisted his arm further, and Hardin groaned in pain. Better to keep silent, he decided, until he knew who they were. 

Lightning flashed three more times, in rapid succession, and Hardin shook the rainwater from his eyes as he tried to take advantage of the illumination to get a good look around. Most of the people on the hillside were entering the cave now, and the few remaining were gathered around a dark-cowled figure a short distance away. The lantern-bearer left Hardin in the hands of the other man, and went to speak to them. 

Hardin strained his ears to hear what was being said, but the storm drowned out the words. The cowled figure, obviously the superior, nodded and gestured strangely with one hand, clutching its cloak closely around itself with the other, and then the lantern-bearer started back towards Hardin and his guard. The people clustered around the cowled figure headed for the cave's entrance with the others, while the cowled figure broke away from the group, following the lantern-bearer. 

Suddenly Hardin stood perfectly still, transfixed. The cowled figure moved through the stormy night with an uncanny grace, avoiding the fallen tree limbs and rocks scattered around the uneven ground with ease even in the darkness. A gust of wind caused the cloak to flutter open for a moment, and Hardin caught a glimpse of a slim waist before it fell back into place. A woman...? So deep was the cowl that even when the lightning flashed, he could see no more of the face than the delicate lips and chin. 

In spite of himself, Hardin swallowed hard. How long had it been now since he'd even lain eyes on a woman at all, let alone the bare, slender waist of one? His mouth was dry despite the droplets running down his face as the cowled figure stopped before him. His eyes narrowed as he searched the darkness inside the cowl for the rest of the face, and the lips parted in a smirk as one hand reached up to draw back the hood. 

Hardin's blood ran suddenly cold at the sight of the hand. It was artificial, crafted of metal plates, and resembled a gauntlet more than the flesh it replaced. Fingers shaped like knives took hold of the fabric, pushing it back to reveal pale hair and strikingly intense dark eyes - set in a young man's face. 

Hardin blinked. Yes, it was certainly a man after all, he saw as the wind blew the cloak open once more, revealing a completely bare - and completely flat - chest. Hardin was grateful for the darkness; he could feel his face turning red. While still in the PeaceGuard, he'd heard the jokes about how desperate prison could make a man, but he'd never truly believed them until that moment. The young man's smirk grew bigger as his piercing eyes studied Hardin, and he had the disturbing impression that the man knew what he had been thinking, and was laughing at his discomfort. 

But after a moment, the smirk slipped from the young man's lips. "Take him inside," he instructed his two men, his eyes still examining Hardin coldly. "He'll dine with us tonight, if he wishes." 

The lantern-bearer's eyes widened, appearing almost as surprised as Hardin was, but the other man nodded and released his grip on Hardin's arms. "As you wish, Sydney." 

"He's around the same size as Aryn," the young man continued. "See if he has a spare shirt and trousers to lend him - he can't go on wearing those rags he's in now, soaked through or no." 

The two men nodded, though now the man with the dagger looked slightly startled as well. "Not one of the Cardinal's, then?" the lantern-bearer asked warily. 

"Certainly not." The young man flashed them a sly, charming smile. "Even if I could not tell if it were so, I would think they've learned their lesson by now." 

The lantern-bearer chuckled, relaxing. "Aye, they should've at that." 

"So we are safe?" the other man asked. 

"Yes, for the time being. Take him to join the others now, and I will set a ward." 

The two men nodded again, and turned to go inside. At the beckoning of the taller man, Hardin began to follow, but glanced back over his shoulder once inside. The man they called Sydney was crouching at the mouth of the cavern, etching something into the dirt with one of his strange metal claws. A sorcerer, Hardin realized with a shiver. 

"Our apologies for being rough," the man who had held the dagger said gruffly, drawing Hardin's attention away from Sydney. He was a little older and a mite taller than Hardin was, and well-muscled, sporting short-cropped dark hair. "We've had troubles in the past, so we could not afford to take any chances." 

"It's all right," Hardin muttered. "Just doing your job, I imagine." Who were these people? 

"Aye." The lantern-bearer, a short, soft-looking man with a red beard, picked up Hardin's discarded broadsword as they passed it, and tossed it to him. "Ye be fortunate Sydney has a fondness for strays. E'en if you're not the Cardinal's, I'd have figured ye for a bloody bandit and sent ye out into the storm... but what Sydney says goes. By the by, my name's Duncan, and this is Padric. What d'they call you?" 

"Hardin's the name." He caught the sword easily, and examined it warily once more. It seemed normal enough... 

"Don't fret over it, Hardin," Padric told him. "You're not going mad. A snake, was it?" 

Hardin hesitated before answering. "...Yes. How did you know?" 

"Tis one of Duncan's favorite tricks. He's used it many a time, and never has it failed." 

"That's why Padric carries the weapon, and not I," Duncan said with a grin. "I've no need." 

Hardin glanced over his shoulder, remembering what Sydney had been doing, but the mouth of the cave was out of his sight now. "So you're a sorcerer also?" 

Duncan looked at him, vaguely surprised. "He's no fool, Duncan," Padric admonished his friend. "Safe as well, I believe. Sydney trusts him, and I trust Sydney." 

"Aye, I trust him too," Duncan agreed. "When ye've hidden yerself away for so long, tho..." 

Hardin felt a chill go down his spine. So there were at least two sorcerers among this party. Hardin had not been particularly religious since his childhood, but the thought still made him wary. He'd heard all the rumors of what could be done with sorcery, and even if only half were true, it was still disturbing enough to make him glad that the PeaceGuard were not the ones who had to deal with the matter. 

"Peace, Hardin," Padric reassured him. "If we wished you harm, you'd have been harmed some time ago. If you do not bring any trouble upon us, we shall not offer you any. Not even if you did have quarrels with the King's men, as you said." 

"Aye, what was that about?" Duncan asked. "If ye care to explain, I be curious why they'd be chasin' ye on a night like this. E'en if Sydney does trust ye, just how dangerous are ye?" 

Hardin didn't exactly feel like talking about it at the moment. "Not very. I stole nothing, and I harmed no man." Not until after they'd imprisoned him, anyway, but he hadn't had much choice in the matter then. "A matter of fraud, and I have neither reason or desire to do such a thing again. The King's men are thick-headed and stubborn, that is why they continue to pursue me." 

"Ah, so I hear," Duncan said with a nod. "So I hear." 

"The King's men have no love for us either," Padric commented, "so as you are neither murderer or robber, you're welcome among our company." 

"And who are you, exactly?" 

"We're the brethren of the Müllenkamp sect, under Sydney Losstarot." 

 

* * *

The meal that night was not fancy, consisting only of some hard journeyman's bread and cheese plus a stew of dried vegetables cooked over the firepits which were hidden deep within the cave, but it was more than Hardin had to eat for as long as he could remember. He didn't ask for a second helping once he'd finished his first, not wanting to take advantage of their hospitality any more than he already had, but Padric filled his bowl again regardless. Hardin did not argue, but savored it as he had the first bowl. Between the loaned clothing and the stew, he thought it must have been the first time in weeks that he had not been cold and hungry, and he wanted to enjoy it while it lasted. 

The man named Aryn had offered a change of clothes without hesitation, even to a complete stranger, and a razor besides, for which Hardin was incredibly grateful. In prison, there had been no means of shaving, and the few times he'd gotten a glimpse of his reflection in a pool of water since his escape, he'd seen a ragged beard and hair much longer than he would have preferred. It was a relief to once again see his own face as it he remembered it from years past, after he'd bathed in the warm water that another of the brethren had brought for him. Even such basic things seemed luxurious after so long without. 

But even that was not quite enough to put his mind at ease. His eyes kept straying to the short man with his rough speech who sat across from him as he ate, seemingly unremarkable in every way. And yet, Duncan was a sorcerer. He could cause people to see things that weren't there, apparently, and the gods knew what else he was capable of. Reading thoughts, conjuring flames, summoning demons... 

And then there was Sydney. When Sydney had entered, Hardin could almost physically feel the man's magnetism. He was not tall, nor did he seem to have anything important to say or do for the time being, but he drew everyone's attentions regardless. Power fairly radiated from him, and with his unnatural grace and those disturbing mechanical claws, Hardin supposed he looked the part of a sorcerer. It was difficult to look away from him, though all he was doing was sitting and eating like the rest of them. 

And they were only two among the dozens who sat around the firepits, talking amongst themselves as they ate. Possibly every single one of them was a sorcerer as well - even quiet Padric, with his soldier's bearing. 

Beside him, Padric excused himself to take their dishes to be washed, leaving Hardin alone with Duncan. "Ye needn't be so wary, now," he told Hardin. "Ye've got Padric bothered now too." 

Hardin sighed. "Is it so apparent?" 

"Not to most. Not to me. But Padric's talent be heartseein', and he can't help but hear yer mutterin'." 

Hardin suddenly felt slightly ill. Padric had been reading his thoughts? 

"It's not like he wants to, mind ye. He tries to avoid it when he can, but he says ye're castin' yer thoughts every which way. Not yer fault, though - it's what happens when a person feels somethin' strongly. Ye must be mighty afraid of us." 

"Not afraid," Hardin said quickly. "You've given me a change of clothes and a hot meal, so I know you wish me no ill." 

"A skeptic then, are ye? Or religious, perhaps?" 

"Nay, not for many years,"Hardin muttered. "I've no care if you're god-fearing men or heretics. To be honest, it's just that I've heard all the whispers of what can be done - and discounted most of them. But then," he confessed, "I've never actually spoken to a sorcerer before." 

"Ah, I see," Duncan said with a chuckle. "From the stories, we all be fifty spans tall and breathin' fire, no?" 

"Something like that, aye." Hardin smiled a bit himself, feeling a little more at ease. "I fear I know little of what your kin are capable of." 

"We all have our talents," said Duncan with a shrug. "Mine be illusions - I can twist a man's perception so he may see what don't be there. Padric can see a man's heart, as I did mention, and sometimes speak within it. Frightenin' the first time, it is," he admitted, "but ye get used to it. Some can make things float in the air, some can spark a fire without fuel. Have to concentrate to keep it goin', though," he added, seeing Hardin glance curiously at the cookfires. "E'en we mighty sorcerers have to chop firewood." 

Hardin chuckled a little. "So you all have a talent or two, and that's it?" 

"Aye, most of us," Duncan confirmed. "Some of us can learn a few more spells here and there, but we be not omnipotent as the rumors would have ye believe - and not out to do the devil's work, neither. We've taken in any number of men like yerself, needin' a meal and a night's rest. More'n the church does, these days." 

That was something of a relief, and Hardin sat back on the rock that served as his seat, looking around the room again with less wariness. Ordinary men and women, who could do a few extraordinary things, that was all. But then his attention inevitably was drawn to a pale figure seated against the wall across the room, his eyes seeming to scour the room despite his casual posture. 

"And Sydney?" Hardin found himself asking. "What is his talent?" 

"Sydney?" Padric paused for a moment. "Well, Sydney be the exception to everything I just told you, I wager. If he wanted t'be fifty spans tall and breathin' fire, I imagine he could be. He's given himself completely to the higher powers, body and soul, and I doubt any living could guess at what he's capable of." 

Hardin could believe it, looking upon the man. He commanded respect and awe even just sitting and silently watching. "So that's why he's your leader." 

"Close enough," Duncan agreed. "Though power or no, I believe I'd still follow him to the bowels of hell. He just be that kind of a man." 

"Hmm." The brethren were beginning to disappear from around the cookfires now, going to ready their bedrolls and blankets for a night's sleep, but Sydney remained where he was. Two men on their way elsewhere stopped in front of him for a moment, talking to each other and then laughing before they moved on - and when they did, Sydney was no longer there, though Hardin hadn't seen him leave. He frowned slightly. How odd it was... 

"Speaking of Sydney, he wishes to speak with you." Padric had returned, and sat down by Hardin once again. 

Hardin couldn't suppress a shiver in spite of himself, knowing that Padric had picked up on his thoughts, but then he realized what the other man had said. "With me? Why?" 

"I did not ask, seeing as it was none of my concern," Padric replied. "All he told me was that he wishes to speak to you, no more. Don't be afraid, Hardin. Remember, he is the one who offered you a meal and a change of clothes." 

"True enough." Hardin stood and stretched his aching muscles; being at rest for even such a short time had reminded them of how long he'd been running from the King's men. It was only then that he realized for the first time that despite his uneasiness, he felt safe enough with the brethren that he'd actually been able to relax. The thought of Sydney and those metal claws of his gave him chills regardless, though he knew Padric was right. "Where is he?" 

"Outside, I believe. The storm has blown itself out, and he wished for privacy." 

"All right, then." 

"We may be asleep by the time ye're done," Duncan told him, "so good night and good luck to ye, Hardin. And don't ye worry - for all his odd appearance and power and the like, he's a good man." 

"Then why did you wish me luck?" Hardin muttered, unsure of whether he was joking or not. 

 

* * *

The rain may have stopped, but the wind still gusted strongly enough to make the night air crisp when Hardin stepped out of the cave. Aryn's borrowed clothing was warmer than what he'd been wearing, but it was still late winter, just barely beginning to warm with the approach of spring. 

Though Sydney was still wearing his dark cloak, Hardin found him immediately in the darkness. Even if not for the hood being pulled back to reveal his pale hair, that aura of power he possessed drew Hardin's attention immediately, and he found him standing a short distance off, leaning on one elbow against the mountainside beside the cave's mouth. His head rested against one of the metal hands as he watched Hardin approach, and Hardin tried not to stare at the steel claws which jutted out from amidst his locks. "You wanted to see me, sir?" 

Sydney nodded slightly, no expression visible on his face. "John Hardin. Twenty-four years of age. You prefer to be called Hardin, correct?" He didn't even give Hardin long enough to nod before he continued. "No one has called you by your first name for such a long time, you would not even recognize it as your own. No one except one person, and those memories are not ones you wish to be reminded of." 

A stab of pain shot through Hardin's heart even at the mention, and he stared at Sydney, startled. 

"Your parents died many years ago, when the plague came, and you were left to care for Philip on your own." Sydney leaned away from the wall, and stepped closer to Hardin, fixing him with piercing dark eyes. "He was all you had left, and you raised him as well as you could with the assistance of the servants and fortune your parents had left behind. But money runs out, and eventually the servants left, seeking better employ. When you grew to manhood, you became a member of the PeaceGuard. It didn't pay so much, but it was enough to keep a roof over Philip's head, and food on his plate. But then, when he was only eleven years old-" 

"Stop it," Hardin growled, taking an involuntary step back, though Sydney was shorter than him by at least half a head. Regardless of size, the man had such an intensity that Hardin imagined Sydney could knock him down just by looking at him. 

"You didn't have much of a choice, did you, Hardin? You could watch him die, or you could do a little selling on the side." 

"It's nothing I want to talk about," Hardin said through teeth clenched in anger. It was bad enough to have someone reading his surface thoughts, but for Sydney to draw out the most painful memories that he'd hidden away... 

Sydney's eyes held him transfixed, unable to look away. "And when they found out about it, you had the same kind of choice - none whatsoever." 

"Stop it, damn you!" Hardin realized suddenly that he had his hand on the hilt of his sword, and it was an effort to pull it away. "Stop your unholy scrying! You don't need to know any of this, and you certainly don't need to repeat it to me!" 

Sydney raised an eyebrow at the outburst, and lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. With the eye contact broken, Hardin took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "No, likely I do not need to know it," Sydney acquiesed. "But yet, I do know it, Hardin. Everything you have seen and done was laid out before me the instant I saw you. Thus is the power that the Dark has granted me." 

"So that makes it acceptable to prick the old wounds and watch me bleed again, does it?" 

Frowning slightly, Sydney tilted his head a bit to one side, regarding Hardin with an almost childish expression. "You've suffered much; I could tell from the first moment. It is not my intent that you suffer more." 

"Then... then..." 

Hardin was too rattled to know what to say, and became even more disturbed when Sydney's right hand rose to touch his cheek. The proximity of those metal claws to his eye made him flinch, but as sharp and cold as they were, the touch upon his skin was as gentle as that of a hand made of flesh and bone. 

"Peace, Hardin. I know you now. I am not your enemy." 

The softly-spoken words somehow eased his mind, and Hardin found himself relaxing, even beneath the man's chill touch. Something told him that Sydney spoke the truth - Sydney would not hurt him. 

"There is much pain in the world, Hardin - pain much like yours. The gods weep for us all..." Sydney withdrew his hand, regarding Hardin with some distant expression behind the cold eyes - perhaps it was sympathy. 

"If indeed the gods exist," Hardin muttered bitterly, "they should do more than weep." He broke the thought off sharply, remembering to whom he spoke; a religious leader likely would not appreciate such talk. 

"They will." Sydney seated himself upon one of the larger stones scattered about the hillside, and motioned for Hardin to sit as well. "The end of the age is nigh," he told Hardin, as the taller man found a fairly comfortable spot. "But it is not my way to demand a man choose salvation or condemnation in a moment's time, nor do I discard those who do not believe as I and the brethren. I would ask you, though, if you would stay with us for a few days' time. Both body and spirit have been weakened by your imprisonment, and you would be wise to give them a chance to regain their strength. We can keep you safe for a time, if you like. And at any time, if you wish to leave, it would be your choice. Perhaps, though, you will find our fellowship to be pleasant." 

"So far I have," Hardin told him. As uneasy as he had been during the meal, it had been the first time in ages he could remember smiling, or feeling content. Even sitting on a cold hillside with this disturbing man who had so upset him only moments earlier, he felt somehow safer than he had since his escape. "And I owe you much gratitude for what you've done already." 

Sydney dismissed it with a wave. "There is no gratitude necessary for giving a man what he needs. We shall make you comfortable tonight also - though it may be necessary to share a bedroll or blanket." A faint smile turned up his lips. "With you having been alone so long, perhaps that would be preferable to you." 

It took Hardin only a moment to recognize what Sydney meant, and then he was once again grateful for the concealing darkness as he averted his face. "Thank you, but I... I think I have become so accustomed to sleeping alone that I'd prefer to keep doing so." So much for his hopes that Sydney hadn't noticed his earlier blunder. "I've gone this long with no blanket, after all." 

"As you wish... but you are welcome to mine." 

Hardin glanced back at Sydney, wondering if he'd misinterpreted his meaning, but Sydney still had that faint smile, and Hardin looked away again quickly, feeling his face grow hotter. ...Was Sydney a lover of men? If so, his initial confused response to him was even more of an embarrassment than he'd thought. 

"The weather grows warmer as spring approaches, and I have a thicker cloak than the other brethren," Sydney continued. "My followers insisted. I have no need of a blanket tonight." 

"Oh." If that was all he meant, Hardin was relieved. "Then... thank you." The words sounded so small and petty in his ears, much too small to encompass everything Sydney had done for him. "Lord Sydney..." 

Sydney gave a small chuckle. "You are not even a follower of mine, much less a servant. Just Sydney, please." 

"Sydney, then." Hardin hesitated, trying to think of how to phrase it. "If you can read my heart, you know that the idea frightens me, but..." 

"Yes, Hardin. I know. And you are welcome." 

It was strange - Hardin had only talked to Sydney for a short time, but despite the disturbing beginning of their talk, already he found himself severely impressed with him. By appearance, he'd have judged Sydney as being quite young, likely no more than twenty or twenty-one, but he possessed more than his peculiar charm and obvious power to draw people to him. Hardin wondered vaguely what his story was. How did one so young come to possess such wisdom and graciousness? 

"Perhaps someday," Sydney said dryly, getting to his feet. "It is late, and you are tired. Doubtless the brethren have all retired by now, as we have come far, and we set out again tomorrow before mid-day. Again, you're welcome to join us." 

"I just may agree to that." Even if it did give him chills to know that Sydney - and others - could hear his thoughts, the idea of a few more warm meals appealed to him. 

Later, as he lay in the darkness wrapped in Sydney's blanket, he realized something else he'd been missing besides meals and shelter. Before he drifted off to sleep, he lay awake, simply listening to the sounds of the brethren breathing around him as they slumbered. He'd been alone for so long, he hadn't remembered that there was another way to feel. 


	2. Flickering Between the Lines

The day dawned chill and grey, but the brethren didn't put off their morning chores, bustling around to distribute the dried fruit that was their breakfast and to cover the firepits. They'd stayed the night in this cave several times before, Duncan had told Hardin, and that was why he and Padric had assumed that he was one of the Cardinal's men, sent to keep watch or even infiltrate them. A few times in the past, the templars had sent out a man in shabby clothing to one of their usual haunts, to ask permission to join their number. The plan hadn't taken into account Sydney's ability to read hearts, however, and the instant he laid eyes upon them, their ruse was uncovered. Though the brethren would not execute a common thief, spies were another matter entirely.

"So, what be yer plans now?" Duncan asked Hardin, as they helped to blot out the footprints around the mouth of the cave, obliterating all traces of their presence the night before. "Which way d'ye be headed?"

"I've got no particular place to go," Hardin replied. "I may as well take Sydney up on his offer; he told me I could stay on for a time, until I've regained some strength."

"Ye seemed plenty strong when ye jumped at me last night," Duncan grumbled good-naturedly.

Hardin grinned. "Where is it that you're all headed, anyway?"

"The spring be almost upon us. We go south to the dark city, to celebrate before the gods."

"Dark city?"

"Aye - in times past, she was known as Leá Monde. Since her fall, we of the brethren be the only ones living to walk within her walls."

"Ah." Leá Monde - Hardin had heard of the once-great city, destroyed in an earthquake around twenty years before. There were bizarre rumors about it... which suddenly made Hardin wonder why Duncan had chosen the words he had. "The only ones living, you say?"

Duncan shrugged uneasily. "That be delvin' a bit too deeply into the mysteries for me to explain," he muttered, "but let's just say, the power is strong in the dark city. Strange things happen there. We be safe though, most likely thanks to Sydney."

He offered no further information, and Hardin didn't ask; he wasn't sure he wanted to know. There were still a couple of weeks until spring, by his estimation, and he could be gone before he had to worry about it.

The brethren travelled on foot, as there was too little money for them to buy horses for them all, and all were equals within Müllenkamp, so Duncan said. As they walked, Padric often fell in beside them, saying little aside from answering the questions Duncan did not - most often because Hardin never asked them out loud. It gave Hardin chills every time, until finally Padric offered to teach him a few mental techniques to contain his thoughts better. It was not a matter of magic, he assured him, just a matter of exerting one's will. Hardin gratefully accepted, and practiced until a few days later, when Padric informed him that he could sense nothing at all.

Hardin vaguely wondered if it blocked out Sydney's abilities as well - not that he'd spoken to the man again after they'd set out. He travelled at the head of their number, rarely saying much aside from giving orders of where to set up camp at night or the like, and always with that shrewd, detached expression on his face, as though he were seeing more than the rest of them saw. Perhaps he did, Hardin thought.

Much of Hardin's time was spent talking with Duncan, Padric, and others of the brethren about what exactly Müllenkamp was about, and why the Cardinal's men had singled them out. From all appearances, they seemed little different from the other small religious sects that Hardin had encountered in Valendia, aside from their "talents", and Duncan claimed that was the reason exactly - their abilities proved that they were closer to the truth about the gods than anyone, and the church didn't want anyone finding out that their religion was built upon mere legends and lies. "Ye've seen our powers, Hardin," he pointed out. "Ye've seen us do things men don't normally be capable of. Must mean we're on to something, right?"

"The priests would say you've been given these powers by demons," Hardin replied. "Why else would you call the force that gifted you with them 'the Dark'?"

"Demons... fah! To their sort, anything that don't be their precious saint be a demon. 'Twas their saints that named it the Dark, not us, and they be all the more uncomfortable that we took it up. Me, I like makin' that lot squirm. Sydney says it just be a natural force, even if its power be negative instead of positive. And at least we have deities, not just the memory of a dead man."

"Well said," another man of the brethren commented. "The woman by whose name we call ourselves lived nearly two thousand years ago - and we can admit that she's gone now. Why should one man spend his life in service to another, when they'll both be dust in the end?"

A few others within hearing range nodded their agreement, but Hardin shrugged. No wonder the King's men had no love for them, if this was the gospel they spread. "And what of all of you? If you believe in serving no man, why do you follow Sydney? What makes the words he speaks have more meaning than those of the Cardinal?"

Duncan chuckled. "That be different. Sydney's no mortal man, y'see."

"I beg your pardon?" Hardin thought it was one of Duncan's jokes at first, but looking around at the others, he saw no one giving any such indication.

"Duncan has a way of dropping these serious revelations, doesn't he." Padric shook his head disapprovingly. "He speaks the truth, though. Sydney is immortal."

Again, Hardin saw no indication that the words were a joke, nor was Padric the joking type to begin with. "I'm sure you'll understand if I tell you that's a little difficult for me to believe."

"Yes, every fanatic cult through the ages has said the same thing of their leader," Padric admitted. "But then, how many of their number could say that they've seen their leader take a deadly wound and live? How many have felt his pulse still with their own fingers, only to see him get to his feet?"

Hardin was not sure how to answer that. It was ridiculous - completely preposterous! And yet, those around him were nodding. "It's the truth," one man spoke up. "We've all seen it, every one of us. Tis a gift from the Dark for giving himself fully to its service, I believe."

"If Sydney's not one of the gods himself," murmured a woman, and a few nodded agreement to this as well.

Hardin glanced up at the head of their party, where Sydney walked through the last dirty remains of the winter's snow and the mud as surely as the rest of them, if more gracefully. "You'll forgive me if I don't immediately trust your words as fact," he muttered.

"Believe or no, ye're still a fellow man," Duncan assured him. "Sydney says what goes between a man and the gods, that be their business, no one else's. Ye can make up yer own mind... we just be tellin' ye what we've seen."

True enough that none of them was pressuring him; they spoke freely of their beliefs, volunteering any information if he asked, but never in a patronizing or forceful way. They believed in the power they called the Dark, and they believed in the gods. They believed in Sydney as the hand of the gods, or perhaps even as a god. It was just how they were, and they didn't begrudge Hardin's skepticism, for that was just the way he was.

In turn, Hardin didn't attempt to discount their beliefs, no matter how odd. When he asked questions, it was to learn more about the people he travelled with, not to change their minds. After all, they'd shown him more kindness than he'd seen in many, many years.

Their generosity was shown again a week into their travels, when they came to a small village at the intersection of two highways. They split up into small groups of two or three to avoid notice, and took the coin Sydney gave them to buy supplies for the remainder of their journey to Leá Monde. Once they had scattered, Sydney and Hardin remained, and the cultist gestured towards the town and began walking without even looking at Hardin. "Come with me now."

Hardin was startled, since Sydney hadn't spoken a word to him since the night they'd first met, except to shrug off his attempt to return the blanket that first morning. He obeyed regardless. "Where are we going?"

"To a tailor. We can't have you taking Aryn's wardrobe if you do decide to leave us, and it's still a bit cold to go without clothes altogether."

Indeed, Hardin had nearly forgotten that the clothes he was wearing were borrowed, since Aryn had never said a word of complaint about the matter, and the prison garb he'd been wearing when he'd first encountered the brethren had long since been tossed out. "But I'm not-"

"You've shared the brethren's burdens, you've gathered wood for our cookfires, and you've respected our beliefs," Sydney cut in. "And even if not for all that, a man deserves to have something of his own to wear."

Hardin just shook his head in disbelief, a bemused smile touching his lips. "Thank you."

"In this town, I am known as Lord Stefan," Sydney continued, dismissing his favor as nothing. "Do not be troubled at my disguise - it is only a small thing."

"What do you-" Hardin's words were choked off in mid-sentence as Sydney's appearance changed in the blink of an eye. Suddenly he was taller, his blond hair cut short, and he was clothed in a red velvet coat and brown leather breeches instead of the cloak and cowl he always surrounded himself with when they were on the road. When he turned to face Hardin, he was sporting a thin beard and ice-blue eyes as well.

"As you were told, the Cardinal's men seek us, and neither would the King's men react kindly if they were to happen across me. Since the King's men seek you also, I would offer you a disguise as well, but I don't suppose you want one."

"That's all right," Hardin said quickly.

Sydney gave his slight smirk, which seemed rather strange on his suddenly bearded and unfamiliar face. "It's just as well, since you'll be trying on clothing. Now come."

A long, low stone building stood at one intersection, with a wooden sign bearing a spool of thread and needle hung beside the door, and it was there that Sydney led Hardin, through the bustling streets. A bell on the door jangled as Sydney pushed it open, and the thin, moustached man behind the counter looked up from the shirt he was stitching. "Ah, Lord Stefan!" he greeted Sydney warmly. "Acquired another one, have you?"

"Indeed, Ethan," Sydney replied smoothly. "This is Derek - he shall be my new stablehand, at least for the time being. He has much potential, I believe."

"I see, then - well met, Derek!"

Not knowing exactly what was going on, Hardin just played along, accepting the man's proffered hand. "Well met, sir."

"As always, I'll have only the best attire for those in my employ," Sydney told the tailor. "What have you in his size?"

"Hmm..." The tailor looked him up and down - measuring him with his eyes, Hardin thought. "A bit tall, average build... These should be proper," Ethan decided, leading them to a rack of shirts and trousers against the back wall. "I'll be happy to make any alterations necessary, of course."

Sydney nodded. "Well, Derek? Choose whatever you will, and I will provide the coin."

"Thank you, milord." Hardin had never even pretended to be a servant before, but he'd had several of his own at one time. He knew as well as anyone how they were expected to behave. However, he also knew that he had no real allegiance to Sydney, and it was not certain that he would be with the man long enough to repay his expenses in labor, and so he picked out the simplest attire that would be proper for a stablehand in the service of a lord. "Would these be suitable?"

Sydney raised an eyebrow at the plain wool, and considered for a moment. "Suitable, perhaps, but not particularly flattering. This color is more fitting for you, I think," he said, picking out a similar shirt to the one Hardin had chosen, but dyed a deep green, with black trim. "And though spring approaches, it is not yet warm; you will need something a bit thicker to wear while you work outside..."

Hardin could not object to Sydney's suggestions, not while he was posing as his servant, and so he obediently draped more articles of clothing over his arm, being careful to choose the simplest patterns and the most inexpensive materials. Sydney was likely already going to pay more than Hardin thought he should, and he didn't intend to take further advantage of his generosity.

After Sydney was satisfied with his choices, Ethan directed them to a back room where Hardin could change, then returned to the front of the shop to see to another customer. Hardin draped the new clothes over the edge of the tall screen provided, and silently undressed behind it, oddly aware of Sydney's eyes on him the entire time - even if the eyes did not resemble his, due to the illusion. The man sat in a chair a short distance away, smiling very slightly, his chin resting upon one hand, given the appearance of flesh now rather than metal.

As Hardin slipped into the new garments, however, that small distraction was forgotten. Gods, how long had it been since he'd worn anything new? He'd not even worn anything that was not either dirty or threadbare for many months before Aryn had lent his clothing.

"Well then?" Sydney inquired. "Let us see how you look."

A tall mirror hung on one wall, and Hardin was somewhat surprised when he went to it. It was the first time he'd seen his full reflection since his time in prison had weakened his body, and he looked much thinner and more frail than he remembered himself being.

"Already you look better than when we first encountered you," Sydney commented. "Your strength will return in time, do not worry. For now, let your concern be for the fit of your clothing. Hmm... it seems to fit well enough. Turn around, would you?"

So much for Padric's tricks blocking Sydney's powers. Hardin wasn't terribly surprised, and he obliged, glancing over his shoulder at Sydney. He watched as the man studied him, then shook his head. "Though I tried to persuade you otherwise, you've dressed yourself in peasant's clothing. Your bearing is too noble for it, Derek."

"I did not wish to cost you more than I had to, milord." Hardin was sure that Ethan was out of earshot, but if Sydney intended to keep up the charade, he would not do otherwise.

"The cost is nothing you have to concern yourself with. It will be a gift. Why don't I find you something nicer?"

"Well..." Why was Sydney being so kind, he wondered? "If it pleases you, milord."

"It does." Sydney flashed him a charming smile before vanishing through the door to the front room, and Hardin went back behind the screen to remove the clothing he'd been trying on. It wasn't long before Sydney returned, and draped a few more garments over the top of the screen for Hardin. "I think these are much more appropriate for you."

Hardin picked up the jacket Sydney had brought in disbelief. It was dark leather, as were the trousers that went with them, and although they were not fancy, they were well-crafted and soft, and the jacket featured metal fasteners that were certainly there for ornamental purposes only. "Isn't this a mite expensive?"

"And who are you to tell me what is too expensive, Derek?" Sydney remarked with a smirk. "Now why don't you try them on?"

"...Yes, milord." Apparently Sydney honestly didn't object to the cost, if he was willing to continue playing that game and even pull rank over it, and so Hardin changed into the garments Sydney had chosen - with gloves and boots as well. Looking in the mirror afterwards, he had to admit that they did look much better on him than the simple clothing he'd picked out. He had been born to a lower noble family, though the conviction of fraud had muddied his family name. And yet, this sort of attire made him look something like the man he'd once been.

Sydney looked on, nodding in approval and smiling a secretive smile. Though the eyes Hardin saw were not truly his, Hardin got the impression that Sydney was enjoying the view, and he suddenly felt self-conscious. He hadn't meant to notice, but despite Sydney's assurances that he could go without blanket or bedroll, since surrendering his blanket to Hardin, he'd been sharing the sleeping accomodations of some of his followers - women and men both. Hardin couldn't help but notice, since the man drew his eyes whatever he might be doing.

"Indeed, Derek, you are quite pleasant to my eyes," Sydney replied simply to Hardin's thoughts. "Your eyes are weary but kind, and hold much spirit, and shrewd intelligence. Traces of a remarkable physique remain despite your current weakened state. I've no doubt you could make an excellent... stablehand." His eyes glittered mischeviously, even through the illusion. "Perhaps even horsemaster someday."

Hardin paused, trying to think of what to say to such an odd metaphorical statement. It was flattering, perhaps, but... horsemaster? His ears suddenly felt hot, and he took a moment to sort out the jumbled emotions in his head before speaking. "Sy... Lord Stefan," he corrected himself awkwardly, "I fear I am more of a... a vagabond, than a servant. I likely will not remain in your service for very long. And as for my thoughts on... the matter... the night we met... it was naught but a misunderstanding. I have not had... work... for a very long time. And..." He coughed uncomfortably, feeling his face grow warm as well as he tried to think of a way to put this within the context of the little charade Sydney was insisting upon. "I initially thought that I might be, uhm, working for a lady, rather than a lord."

"I know," Sydney said with a light shrug, dismissing it. "But does it really matter so much if it is a lord or lady employing you, so long as the work is honest?"

His smile widened; yes, Sydney was definitely enjoying himself, Hardin realized. His obvious discomfort amused the man, and he shot back a quick, terse reply. "It is quite different working for a lord rather than a lady."

"Is it really?" Sydney's arms crossed over his chest as he regarded Hardin with amusement. "Have you ever worked for a lord before?"

"No, I have always enjoyed working for ladies."

"Perhaps my employ might change your mind."

Hardin's face grew hotter. "Quite honestly, milord," he replied, trying hard to keep his voice steady, "I do not believe I am the type of servant you would prefer. If you seek someone to muck out stables for you, I would advise you to look elsewhere."

A delighted laugh burst from Sydney's lips. "Rarely do I encounter one who will speak with me so frankly! And properly within metaphor, no less. Calm yourself, Hardin," he assured him, dropping the charade, "I would not have you do anything you do not wish to do. I merely thought that perhaps you might appreciate the offer."

Hardin tried not to show his immense relief with a sigh. "I'm flattered, Sydney, but I am no lover of men. If you can read my heart, you know that."

"Yes, I can," Sydney replied, still smiling oddly. "Now, let us speak of something else. Do the clothes fit you well? Can you move freely in them?"

Slightly surprised that the fine clothing had not been intended as incentive, Hardin nodded. "But Sydney, I do not deserve-"

Suddenly Sydney held up his hand, cutting him off without a word, and went to the door, cracking it open just a bit and peering into the front room of the tailor's shop. Hardin followed curiously, and stretched as he tried to see what Sydney was looking at. The smaller man moved to the side, leaning down slightly so that Hardin had a clear view.

Two men had entered the shop, wearing crimson cloaks edged with gilt, and sporting swords. Trained as a guard, Hardin noted almost immediately that the weapons were not peace-tied as they should have been within the borders of the village, but the cloaks gave them away as being in the service of the cardinal; they were granted the right to bare steel anywhere they deemed appropriate. Within a village, however, they usually tied their weapons as other men - unless they intended to use them.

"Can I help you, gentleman?" they heard Ethan's voice ask.

"I believe you can. We're looking for a man, roughly this tall," - the man speaking lifted a hand to indicate a man somewhat shorter than himself - "pale of hair and of complexion, with dark eyes. Dark, strange eyes..."

Hardin started at the obvious description of Sydney's true form, and beside him, Sydney let out a low, hissing breath. "Jaeger's tunic..."

"What?" Hardin whispered back, but Sydney, intent on what was happening in the other room, motioned for him to be quiet.

"His hair falls just below his chin, and he travels with something of an entourage," the man continued. "Have you ever sold clothing to this man, or any of his companions?"

There was a pause before the tailor's voice answered. "Not that I can recall."

"Are you absolutely certain?" the man asked, his voice lowering dangerously.

"Yes, quite."

Through the crack of the door, Hardin saw the man's companion step forward, bringing his hand down in a fist on the counter. "You lie," he began hotly. Pulling a swatch of fabric from his belt, he proffered it to the tailor. "Does this look familiar?"

There was another pause, and this time when Ethan spoke, his voice sounded anxious. "Why yes, I use that stitch to identify all my garments."

"So it is yours, then." The first man's voice again.

"Yes, it is."

"This cloth comes from a tunic worn by a man we slew a few weeks past, known to be a follower of the one we seek. Others we have slain have worn garments with the same stitching."

"An unfortunate coincidence that they should come while we are here," Sydney said softly at Hardin's side, "or perhaps fortunate, for the sake of the tailor. This looks as if it may become a bit unpleasant."

"I tell you, I've never seen such a man!" the tailor protested.

"Aiding their kind, and then lying to servants of the Lord," the second man growled. "You dig yourself ever deeper, friend of the Dark."

Sydney took a step back, away from Hardin and the cracked door. "I apologize for the abruptness, Hardin," he murmured, "but you have no need to become involved in this. When you arrive, stay where you are."

"Hmm?" Hardin turned away from the door, distracted. "What do you-"

One metal hand was raised towards him in an odd way, and Sydney began to chant. "To blackened wing and wav'ring light-"

Hardin's eyes widened. "Sydney-"

"Delta-ecksis!"

A flash of light engulfed Hardin, and he raised his arm to shield his eyes. The floor seemed to shift beneath his feet, throwing him off balance, and he stumbled backwards. When the glare had faded, he found himself alone in a hollow between two hills, though he could still hear the noise of the village beyond.

So Sydney could send a man to another location with his sorcery. A handy trick. "Stay where you are, he says," Hardin muttered, staring around suspiciously at his new surroundings. Not knowing where he was, or what was happening in the tailor's shop, he wasn't enthused about the idea.

After a moment's deliberation, he crept to the top of the taller of the two hills. Crouched on his hands and knees to keep from being spotted, he looked at what lay beyond. No commotion was apparent within the village, and he wondered what Sydney intended.

Only a short time had passed before a pair of figures exited the village, heading straight towards Hardin. He removed the peace-tie he'd bound his broadsword with when they'd arrived, but as the two men drew closer, he recognized them as Sydney's. Sydney had found them and warned them that the Cardinal's men were searching, they said when Hardin asked, and to leave the village quickly and gather there in the hollow. Another pair arrived shortly after, and then three more.

Even so, a handful of the brethren had not arrived in the hollow before shouting arose in the distance, quickly followed by flashes of light and a rushing noise, like the sound of a great bonfire. Those in the hollow tensed, knowing what must be transpiring; those still in town had been discovered.

"Should we go to their aid?" one man suggested, and the others deliberated. Sydney could handle himself, they all agreed, but if it were some of the other brethren in danger...

A sudden blur of motion caught Hardin's eye, and he turned to see Duncan, who had been one of those missing, kneeling behind him, clutching a wounded side. "Sydney's found the last of them," he panted as the others gathered around, "and they be bringin' the cart and horses. There be a score of the Cardinal's men, and these lot've faced us before, so they knew my little tricks as well as our descriptions. It be a swordfight from here out, I fear - Sydney's got no intention of summoning or callin' the elements in the midst of town... tho' he's sendin' the wounded to safety..."

Another injured man suddenly appeared beside Duncan, and while some of the other brethren rushed to attend to their wounds, Hardin glanced back at the town. He could see there was a disturbance near the stables, but not much else.

It was an easy enough decision to make. Nearly all Sydney's men were safe, so that left very few in the village, trying to fight off at least twice their number of templars, and likely trying to handle frightened horses as well. These people had given him food, shelter, and clothing, and he was already a wanted man. Hardin rose from his safe vantage point, and began to run towards the village.

With all the commotion, people fleeing from the fight and freed horses running every which way, Hardin remained unnoticed until he'd found Sydney. Two men wearing the gilt-edged cloaks stood in the stableyard, flanking the wide gate to the street. Sydney and the others, Padric among them, were still trading blows with a dozen more within.

It was easy enough to take down the first of the men in the gate, as they were more focused on what was happening within the stables than outside, and the second was so surprised that he fought carelessly, and fell without much effort.

Not far off, two of the templars had nearly overcome Padric, and Hardin lunged at the closer of the two. The man did manage to block, but was thrown off balance by the unexpected attack, and knocked against the other's swordarm with his own as he turned. Padric took advantage of the situation and struck his opponent in the neck before he could recover. Hardin was relieved to see that the man was wielding a sword now as opposed to the mere dagger he'd been armed with when they'd met, and the two of them easily overcame the other templar.

Sydney had a sword now as well, Hardin discovered, and was not bad with it at all, defending two unarmed brethren - Aidan and Domenic, Hardin recognized them - who held the reins of the pack-horses, trying to control the frightened animals, unaccustomed as they were to battle. Three templars faced Sydney, who turned and parried and manuevered so swiftly and gracefully that it appeared almost to be a dance. Still, he was not quite quick enough to prevent one of the templars' swords from striking Aidan in the shoulder.

As Hardin rushed forward to assist them, he heard Sydney begin the chant. "To blackened wing and wav'ring light..."

At the final word, the wounded man vanished - only to appear a few feet away, just beside Hardin, who almost stumbled over him. Sydney's head shot up in surprise, and when his eyes found Hardin, his mouth tightened angrily.

Being a reasonably experienced fighter, Hardin knew he couldn't take the time to wonder why Sydney was angry, for the battle was not over yet. But before he'd even broken away from Sydney's gaze, the mage's expression changed to one of disbelief, as one of the templars took advantage of his momentary distraction to stab him in the chest, burying the blade nearly to the hilt. Like a rag doll, Sydney crumpled to the ground as the templar yanked his sword free.

"Sydney!" Dominic's young voice rang out in dismay, and the other brethren remaining in the stableyard abandoned their individual battles to rush to their leader's aid. Now the lines were clearly drawn - half a dozen templars against Hardin and five of the brethren, two of which were unarmed, and one of which was wounded. Three of the templars were surrounded as the brethren rushed in, and they fell easily. Hardin took care of one of the others who jumped forward to join the melee, and another met Padric's blade in the stomach. That left only one, who was overpowered quickly.

Aiden tried dizzily to stand, holding his wounded shoulder, and another of the brethren went to help him as the rest gathered around Sydney. Pale and still, he lay on his side in a pool of his own blood, and Hardin gazed down at him in horror. If he'd been there, if Sydney hadn't sent him away immediately, he might have been able to keep this from happening...

Padric knelt, feeling at Sydney's neck for a pulse. "He's gone, isn't he?" Hardin asked.

Padric nodded. "Not to worry, though," he commented gravely. "He'll be back soon. Kermiak - see if you can chase down the two horses whose reins Aiden dropped."

The man left to do as Padric said, and Hardin just watched them in disbelief. Surely they didn't still believe this nonsense about Sydney's immortality, did they? He'd seen the templar's blade go right through him, and now...

Hardin blinked. It had to have been his imagination, but for a moment, he could have sworn he'd seen Sydney's eyelids flutter open. That couldn't have happened. It was just those stories they'd been telling him - it had to be.

He leapt back as Sydney's chest suddenly rose, and the man drew in a shuddering breath. Metal claws punctured the dirt of the stableyard as Sydney pushed himself upright to a sitting position, and blood spilled from his lips as he coughed painfully. His breath rasped in his throat as he looked up to meet Hardin's shocked eyes with a look of infuriation. "I... told you..." He coughed again, and wiped the blood from his lips with one of his artificial hands. "...to stay... where you were."

Too astonished to defend himself, Hardin had no response. "Are the others safe?" Sydney asked Padric, his breath coming a bit less raggedly already, and Padric nodded. "Good. Then let us join them."

Sydney got to his feet with only a bit of help from Padric, and seemed to be in near perfect health by the time Kermiak returned with the horses. They had to make haste to leave the village before any more trouble started, and Hardin watched in disbelief as Sydney set a quick pace for the rest of them.

"We're not all mad after all, are we?" Padric commented, walking at Hardin's side.

Hardin shook his head, as much to clear it as in denial. "How is that possible...?"

"Many impossible things are made possible when the gods will it so."

"Apparently." Hardin still doubted the existance of these gods - there had to be another explanation for a dead man rising to walk again before his eyes. Still, there was no possible way that it could have been a trick, unless it had been an illusion like one of Duncan's, and what purpose would that have served?

Sydney walked ahead of the rest of them, making a straight path for the hollow where the rest of his followers were hidden, with no indication that only moments ago he'd been still and lifeless. Anger still radiated from him, which also confused Hardin. "Do you have any idea why he's so angry that I came to aid you?" he asked Padric.

"When he sent Duncan to safety, did he appear right beside you?"

"Yes..."

Padric nodded. "As I thought. A teleportation spell is a bit complicated to manage all on one's own. To ensure a safe arrival, the caster must focus on a place or object - or sometimes a person. Preferably one he knows well, but no doubt he found you to be an easier target to envision than a specific location amongst the hills in the midst of a battle."

So that was why Aiden had not been sent out of the battle, Hardin realized. If Aiden's injury had been more serious, or if one of the templars had been closer, the man could have died there, thanks to his rushing in. "I thought he meant to keep me from being involved in your order's troubles with the law."

"Likely he did. But that was not the only reason." Padric smiled. "All of us have learned on our own time, to follow Sydney's orders exactly, whether there are many reasons, a single reason, or none at all apparent to us."

"That requires a great deal of faith, Padric. Faith is something I have little of anymore," Hardin admitted, "in anyone or anything, be it gods or men."

"Be that as it may," Padric responded, "after what you've witnessed today with your own eyes, can you deny that something beyond what we can see does exist? Something which you may have faith in again someday?"

Hardin paused, thinking it over before nodding slightly. "I suppose I can't deny it at that." Still, their powers did not necessarily mean that there were gods.

Faith may not have been Hardin's strong point, but humility was a virtue with which he was becoming well-acquainted. Late that evening, when they'd gotten far enough from the village that they thought it safe to camp for the night, Hardin managed to find a moment when Sydney was alone and went to speak to him. "Sydney," he began as the man turned at his approach, irritation still evident in his eyes, "I just wanted to apologize, for not doing as you asked. Padric explained to me... I had no idea."

Sydney didn't respond, and Hardin sighed. "You have done so much for me - even on this very day - and by not obeying a simple request you made of me, I nearly allowed one of your men to die... and could have gotten you killed as well."

A hint of a smile curled Sydney's lips, and his expression lightened somewhat. "Nothing you could do could bring about my death, Hardin. You believe the stories now, do you not?"

Hardin hesitated for a moment. "I believe that I need to do a lot of thinking about what I believe."

His words seemed to amuse Sydney, but the dark eyes grew serious again. "If you believe nothing else, believe this," he said curtly. "When I give an order to those in my company, I expect it to be followed without question. Doing otherwise will do nothing to me, but only serve to bring trouble down upon your own head."

Hardin nodded. The PeaceGuard had taught him to follow orders, even if in the end he had disobeyed his orders out of desperation.

Sydney's expression softened somewhat, and he rested one of his hands upon Hardin's shoulder. "I do understand why, Hardin. You are a good man. I would count myself fortunate if you chose to remain with us."

Surprisingly enough, Hardin found that he was no longer particularly bothered by the metal claws. Or perhaps it was just that the fact Sydney's touch in itself seemed more uncomfortable than his hands, after the talk they'd had in the tailor's shop. He'd said he would not make Hardin do anything he did not want to do, though, so Hardin did his best to ignore it. It wasn't overly hard - the leather of the jacket he wore was thick, and he could pretend that he felt nothing.

Hardin started, realizing for the first time that he still wore the clothes he'd been trying on when Sydney had teleported him from the shop. "Sydney... what happened to the tailor?"

"Ethan is safe, and he has been paid," Sydney assured him. "The two templars who visited him are on their way back to the cardinal, and they will tell him that their informant was mistaken - the garments were not Ethan's work." Sydney gave a small sigh. "It was not for my sake that I disguised myself when within the village, but for those whose shops I frequent," he murmured.

"But..." Hardin was confused. "Didn't Ethan admit to the clothes being his?"

Sydney paused for a moment before answering. "Hardin, there is a gift that the Dark has given me that could be very dangerous if bestowed upon the wrong person: compulsion."

The sudden uneasiness must have been apparent in Hardin's eyes, for Sydney gripped his shoulder tighter, meeting his eyes steadily. "The gift is a precious one, given only to those whom the Dark believes will not misuse it, to reweave the threads of human thoughts and emotions for their own selfish purposes. It is a last resort, and nothing more. Today I used it so that no harm would come to an innocent man, and that is all."

"Y-yes... I understand." Hardin allowed himself to relax a bit. "I will trust you." Gods, but the temptation to use such a power had to be immense! Certainly, though, Sydney would have already used such a power on him if he'd intended to do so.

"Thank you." Hardin let out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding as Sydney withdrew his hand. After a moment, though, Sydney gave him a mischevious smirk. "I would much prefer my 'stablehands' to come to me of their own free will, Derek. If you should ever change your mind..."

Of course he was that transparent to Sydney. "I think my decision shall stand, milord," he said dryly, himself wearing the hint of a smile.

Hardin was rewarded with a chuckle from Sydney. "I do so enjoy our talks, Hardin," he remarked. "At any rate, I suppose I shall go and find myself a more willing 'stablehand' for the time being. Sleep well."

They were sleeping in a valley that night, under the open sky, and when they set up shifts for the watch, Hardin volunteered for the first. With all that had happened, he doubted he would be able to find sleep quickly, and he owed Sydney and his men much that day, between his new clothing and the disobedience.

Hardin had done a watch before, of course, and he usually passed the time by walking about the area and seeing that everything was as it should be, whether the area to cover was large or small. It had been a few years, however, and between the fighting and the walking that followed, Hardin was not at his best. He merely found a suitable place from which he could view the whole of the camping site and sat down, leaning against a tree upon a slight rise to the south. The previous autumn's fallen leaves littered the ground that had only recently been exposed from beneath the melting snow, so if anyone came from behind, he would hear them. He would see anyone coming from any other direction long before they were a threat, unless they had archers, and archers would be of little use in the night.

The night was dark, the stars often obscured by thin clouds that rolled through the sky from time to time, and his thoughts wandered as he surveyed the sleeping brethren. There was no movement in the camp below, aside from the occasional dozing figure turning to the other side. They were so kind, and his time spent with them so pleasant, he found himself wondering if he should remain with them, even if he did not believe as they did. They were not all strong, so another sword would be of use - and besides, their earnest faith made him wish he could still believe in such fanciful things as benevolent gods.

It was so peaceful, in fact, and the night so quiet, that Hardin found himself nearly dozing off only halfway through his shift. It would be best if he did walk, he decided, and so he stood to walk the perimeter. As he did so, he looked down at the faces of those he passed; he could put a name to several of them by now.

One he did not pass, however, was Sydney, even after he'd been all the way around the camp. Still off with whomever he'd found to share his bedroll, Hardin imagined. He chuckled a little, thinking back on their conversation in the tailor's back room. As discomfiting as the subject matter was, the verbal sparring had been somewhat entertaining. It had been awhile since Hardin had had to use his mind for anything other than basic survival, and the mental exercise was a fine change of pace. The cultist's wits were as sharp as his fingers, he thought idly as he wandered up the side of the nearest hill, hoping to get a good vantage point from which to see the stars while the clouds were absent.

He stood there at the crest for a time, picking out the constellations he'd learned as a boy - after long months spent in a prison cell, Hardin had learned to take pleasure in even the most common and mundane things once again - before the clouds rolled in again, and he happened to glance down to the hillside below. Dark as it was, a small smudge near the bottom of the slope stood out as darker still, and Hardin went to investigate.

Due to the cloud cover, Hardin was within ten paces when he stopped, identifying what comprised the vague shape before him. A blanket covered two still forms, and blond hair and metal reflected the waxing moonlight as the clouds began to clear again.

Hardin halted, knowing he should turn and go back to the camp. It was none of his concern, after all, what Sydney's personal life entailed. He had no business observing such a private moment as this.

But even so, he took another few steps forward, some undefined longing urging him on. Maybe it was because he had been so long without that closeness himself, or because Sydney had offered him the same, but he hesitantly approached the two who lay sleeping beneath the blankets, circling them so that he could see their faces.

By starlight, Sydney's face looked angelic. The coldness and shrewdness that marked him while he was awake were smoothed away by slumber, leaving the peaceful face of a child. It was the first time Hardin had seen him not wearing the dark cloak, and he was intrigued to see that not only Sydney's hands were artificial, but both his arms all the way to the shoulder as well. One of the metal limbs stretched out absently upon the ground next to him, the other rested lazily across his chest as he lay on his back, his head nestled in the curve of Aiden's bare shoulder, which Sydney had healed with his own magic after the battle that afternoon. In sleep, Aiden still wore the traces of a smile of contentment.

Hardin found himself envying that smile before he caught himself. It was only natural that he should be a bit jealous, he supposed. It had been a long time since he'd felt that same contentment, regardless of how Aiden had found it. Though he had confessed a love of women, Hardin had never been promiscuous - he was too well-mannered and cautious to take such things lightly.

Sydney did not seem to share that contentment, though, when Hardin looked again. Though his face appeared perfectly at peace, his lips turned down at the corners in what could almost have been a slight frown. A faint glimmering was apparent beneath his pale lashes, and Hardin watched in surprise as a single tear rolled down his cheek, only to be lost in his rumpled hair. The wind, still chill with the last vestiges of winter, dried the trail it had left almost immediately.

Hardin was too amazed to even consider leaving, in case Sydney was waking up. Tears, from Sydney? He wouldn't have imagined it possible. What sort of dreams must the man have, that would make even him cry?

Somehow, Hardin caught himself about to kneel at Sydney's side, to reach out and wake the man from whatever nightmares he walked in, just as he had his brother in their youth, when Philip had cried out in his sleep. Unlike Philip, Sydney would not welcome the interruption, he was sure of that, and Hardin stepped back. If he were in Aiden's position, he could have done so, and taken Sydney into his arms to comfort him, but...

Hardin shook his head in annoyance as he turned to go. As he'd told the man before, he was no lover of men, so it was a ridiculous thing to think. His shift was almost done now anyway, by the position of the stars, and he had intruded for far too long already. But as he went, his eyes were drawn one last time to Sydney's sleeping face, peaceful and melancholy. It was a rare thing to see, he imagined.

The next morning, Hardin made certain to avoid Sydney's attention, knowing that his heart-seeing talent would expose what he had seen immediately. He was not a voyeur by any means; it had just been a strange whim, and he had meant no harm in watching Sydney sleep. Watching Sydney from afar, though, the man seemed no different from any other morning, as cool and focused as ever, with no indication that his dreams had been troubling. Hardin found himself wondering just how often the dreams came.


	3. Stolen Moments Floating Softly on the Air

More days passed while Hardin journeyed with the brethren, and the air began to grow noticeably warmer with the approach of spring even within the short time. They slept in the open more often than not, and Hardin volunteered again for the watch each time he felt up to the task; it hadn't been long enough that he'd regained his former endurance, of course, and sometimes a day spent hiking through uneven terrain could wear him out. But it was something he could do for them.

And although he was ashamed of it, he had come to be fascinated by watching Sydney sleep.

It was entirely uncharacteristic of him, really. He'd never been one to intrude on others' privacy, and Sydney and the lovers he chose would not have left the rest of the brethren unless that was what they desired. The focused, impersonal demeanor Sydney assumed during the day was at odds with the sadness Hardin saw as the man lay dreaming, and that told him that it was nothing Sydney wanted anyone to know about. With his usual straightforward manner, which Hardin had witnessed firsthand in Ethan's back room, he guessed that Sydney would not have hidden anything if he didn't wish it hidden.

It was an act of invasion, and he knew that, but night after night, Hardin waited until his shift was nearly over, then sought out whatever place Sydney had chosen to spend that night. Each time Hardin found Sydney, most often lying with a lover's arm around him, he stood and watched the steady rise and fall of Sydney's chest, gazed upon the moonlight-softened lines that formed his delicate features, so full of that subtle despondancy. Hardin couldn't have said why it meant so much to him, except that it was a rare and beautiful sight.

He'd wondered for a time if perhaps Sydney's advances had not been entirely unwelcome after all. The mage was a rather attractive and charismatic man, after all - Hardin had to admit that - and each time Hardin saw him and his chosen consort for the night slip off alone, he had begun to feel a twinge of resentment. Occasionally, finding the two of them in a close embrace put thoughts in his head that made him blush... but that was only natural, he'd decided. Too much time spent alone was bound to make a man jealous of those who were not.

Besides, upon studying Sydney in repose, Hardin's thoughts were not lustful, but protective and contemplative. He remembered sitting by his brother's bedside, watching him sleep during his lengthy illness. The sickness had ravaged his young body so that even in sleep, Philip's face was drawn in pain, and he was prone to nightmares borne of the fever. Hardin had stood by to wake him if he began showing signs that another was coming on, and to hold him close when he woke sobbing.

Some nights Sydney appeared more restful than others, merely unhappy, and some nights he cried silently in his sleep as he had done the first night. So often, Hardin wanted to reach out to touch him, to draw him back to the waking world as he had Philip, but he didn't suppose that Sydney would understand, much less be grateful for the gesture.

That was why Hardin remained standing as he watched - if Sydney did wake suddenly, he could give the excuse that he'd been investigating a sound he heard, and had just come upon them by chance. Not the most promising situation, lying to a man who could read his thoughts, but he hoped his honest embarrassment would be enough of an emotional cover for Sydney to not see through the lie immediately. He'd been approached a few times by Sydney during the day, and had tried to cloak his secrets within a mask of concern for some other, more mundane matter, which he had to excuse himself to take care of immediately. He'd been able to escape any lengthy conversation thus far, and if Sydney had noticed anything suspicious, he hadn't acknowledged it.

One day they set an especially hard pace, and Duncan informed Hardin that they were close to Leá Monde; they would probably reach the entrance to the city the next afternoon, and sleep in real beds the next night. Hardin was still a little dubious about this supposed "dark city" of theirs, and considered his earlier intention of leaving them before they arrived. Those thoughts did not last long, however - Hardin found the idea of being on his own again rather unappealing. He'd grown quite fond of Duncan, with all his good-natured coarseness, and Padric's strong, gentle presence was always a comfort. The other brethren also treated him as one of their own by this time. It would be ridiculous to give up that kinship for the sake of superstition - especially as he had no place else to go. If he left the brethren, it would be back to sleeping under hedges and hiding from the authorities until they finally decided he wasn't worth it. With the prospect of a real bed with a real mattress waiting for him less than a day's journey away, Hardin's choice was quite simple.

But then, if they were to have beds and rooms, Hardin realized he would no longer be able to keep watch over Sydney at night. Weary as he was, he volunteered for the first watch that night nonetheless - it might be his last chance to keep that vigil.

Naturally, the one last time he intended to intrude in such a way, he was finally found out.

It was Aiden again this time, though Hardin had found Sydney with a different consort nearly every night he sought them out. He lay nestled against the tawny-haired young man's side just as he had been the first time Hardin had found them, the blankets spread out beneath them and across them in the same way. The blankets were much less necessary than they had been that night, however, especially since they'd secluded themselves within a small grove of trees which sheltered from the breeze. A stream nearby lent the peaceful sound of rushing water as a backdrop for the scene, and so Hardin assured himself he was in no danger of being discovered when he sat down a short distance away from the two lovers. His legs ached from walking, and he was tired from keeping the first watch on the two nights previous. Sydney had never awoken before, he reasoned - he was apparently a sound sleeper.

The moon was nearly full now, and its pale light filtered down through the bare limbs of the trees to cast intricate shadows upon Sydney's face. The night's dream must have been especially harsh, for his parted lips turned down in sad acceptance as tears trickled down his cheek. He looked like some kind of statue Hardin might have expected to find in a church - a tormented angel weeping over the tribulations of man. Dangerous thoughts, perhaps, considering that some among his followers believed him to actually be an angel, if not something more. As much as Hardin would have liked to believe in something like that, he had seen too much during the twenty-four years of his life to simply trust so easily.

Half-asleep himself, Hardin was rather startled when Sydney's eyes abruptly opened to look at him. Intense as always, they were, though they held neither the surprise nor the anger that Hardin was expecting, but rather a grave interest.

_You are a very strange man, John Hardin._

Sydney's voice, though his lips hadn't moved. Hardin opened his mouth, his groggy mind still fumbling for an excuse as he got to his feet, but Sydney's head rose, and shook slightly.

_No need to speak aloud, nor to excuse yourself. Your presence does not trouble me, so calm yourself before your stomping about wakes Aiden - unlike myself, I've no doubt that he would be upset._

Hardin froze where he stood, still shaken and quite confused as to why Sydney was not angry with him. He had every right to be. The trails left by the mage's tears still remained on his cheeks, and he made no effort to hide them or wipe them away, merely staring at Hardin with that same curious expression.

_So you have been watching me,_ Sydney's voice came again. _You have seen the tears that I have hidden for many long years. Why return again and again, Hardin? Why, when your own thoughts told you it was an intrusion?_

Hardin didn't know, and he opened his mouth to say so, but Sydney's silent voice admonished him again. _Hush - I have joined our minds in a rapport, so you have no need to speak out loud. Merely think what you would say, and I will hear it. ...So you don't know yourself?_

Hardin swallowed hard against the shivers that it sent up his spine, and tried his best to follow Sydney's instructions. _No, I do not. I pondered it again and again, and could come up with no definite answer. In a way, it was... it made me remember watching my brother sleep, when he was ill._

_Ah, and when the nightmares came, you would free him from their grasp, I see,_ came Sydney's response. _But you would not wake me from mine. What then was the point of watching?_

That was exactly what Hardin had been wondering all along. Trying to put his thoughts into some kind of coherency, he hesitated before answering. _Somehow, I just felt that I must. It gave me a feeling of peace, and it... it seemed such an unusual thing._

_It made me more human, and less distant and cold, as you view the gods the others mistake me for to be. Is it not so?_

It was so simple, Hardin was amazed he hadn't realized it before. _Of course... you're right._

_Why is it so impossible to you that I could be what they say?_

Hardin frowned. _...If I may speak frankly, Sydney...?_

_I would have it no other way._

_...You cannot be a god, because you have shown your face to me, treated me with kindness and generosity, and spoken to me. No god has ever taken the time to do such things._

Sydney's lips turned up in a slight, sad smile. _Do you remember when I told you that the gods weep?_

_Yes..._

Sydney's slight smile vanished, leaving his mouth small and serious. _Many men believe, as you do, that the gods do not speak to them. I tell you this - the gods speak to man far more often than you would think; and men refuse to hear, because what the gods tell them is often... unpleasant._

His words combined with his grave expression were enough to explain to Hardin exactly what had been making Sydney cry in his sleep, and he had no idea how to respond. Seeing his uneasiness, Sydney sat up beneath the blanket that covered him to his chest. "You find the mindspeak confusing and distressing, do you not?" he asked. "I have placed Aiden in a deeper sleep; he will not wake unless I reverse the spell, so we may speak freely now."

"Thank you," Hardin replied softly, seating himself again. Even if Aiden could not wake, something about the moment seemed so fragile that it would have seemed wrong to speak at normal volume.

Sydney seemed to understand as he leaned upon one metal arm to regard Hardin. "Yes, the gods speak to me in dreams," he affirmed, his voice also hushed. "They tell me of what has happened... and what is to be." He paused for a moment. "I know you do not believe in the gods, Hardin, and that is fine; your beliefs are your own, borne of your experiences. Please take no offense when I speak of mine, borne of my own."

Hardin nodded, curious as to what Sydney might say of these gods he believed in. It wasn't that he was closed to the idea that there might be gods, after all - it was just that he'd been given good reason not to believe.

"As you have witnessed firsthand," Sydney continued, "mankind is truly a primitive, barbaric species. Though we are capable of great kindnesses and incredible ideas, inventions and philosophies and art, we are also the only species which devours each other out of greed rather than necessity, which destroys for sport, giving nothing back to the earth - even burying our dead away where their remains cannot rejoin with the earth from whence they came. Despite all the goodness in us, a taint exists in our kind. It is a part of the mysteries of my followers and I, that this current age is drawing to a close due to this taint - the gods have revealed it to me in my dreams. The things that will come, the great evils that will be done..." His voice trailed off in contemplation, and Hardin was surprised when Sydney abruptly lowered his head, averting his eyes as his face took on the troubled look of melancholy that Hardin had seen night after night.

"The priest and philosopher Durai once wrote, 'And lo, the body is not eternal, for it must feed on the flesh of others, lest it return to the dust whence it came. Therefore must the soul deceive, despise, and murder men,'" Sydney murmured, absently tracing circles in the soft dirt with the claws of his right hand. "So it shall be done with increasing frequency in the coming years, with few recognizing the futility. As one man avoids returning to the dust, he sends another to the grave, and if no end is found to this cycle, naught but dust shall remain. I know not if I can avert this calamity, being only one man - blessed though I am. Others have performed this task before me, and yet..." He shook his head suddenly, seemingly breaking free of a trance, and looked back up at Hardin. "I suppose I have said too much. Being an unbeliever, you no doubt think me mad."

Hardin was dubious, of course, but as Sydney respected his beliefs, he would not offend. "I know too little to make a judgment such as that."

Sydney lowered his head again, this time with an ironic smile. "I understand. Apocalyptic prophecies, dreams sent from the lips of the gods... To a man with no faith, they seem as deceptive and fleeting as the fever dreams of your brother, do they not?"

"I don't know," Hardin replied honestly. "He was a boy, and ill. You are a grown man, and appear to be in good enough health. Neither have I seen indications of madness from you, even if I do find your beliefs to be more fanciful than my own."

Sydney chuckled. "In a way, I envy you your lack of faith, Hardin. Believing nothing, you are bound by nothing. For you, the end of the world is nothing more than a dream. But for one such as myself..."

His voice trailed off again, and his shoulders gave a slight shrug as he began idly etching circles in the ground again. Silence reigned as Hardin pondered the man's words, trying to think of something reassuring or profound to say, and Sydney sat cloaked within his own thoughts.

Finally, Hardin's thoughts found words, and he broke the silence. "If it's true, Sydney, and it is a revelation from the gods, then I am glad that I stayed up these nights to witness your sorrow. You have been good to me, you protect your followers well... it is not right that you should suffer this with no one knowing what you endure."

Sydney glanced up at him, a surprised smile of appreciation on his face. "A kind sentiment," he said softly. "I'd have expected nothing less from you."

They sat in silence a moment longer before Sydney spoke once more. "...But since you believe that there are no gods and no prophecies?"

"I wish I'd woken you as I did my brother," Hardin replied bluntly.

Sydney's smile turned to one of amusement. "You chose wisely. Your watching did not bother me, but your interruption would have."

His head lowered again, as he seemed to turn his attentions inward, still drawing in the dirt. "...Though often I have wished someone would," he admitted. "I would not have the gods' revelations cut short, but..." With a click, his hand closed, abandoning the spiraling shapes they'd fashioned. "It is at least a comfort to wake in the embrace of another mortal... to feel that warmth and to know before I even open my eyes that I am in the waking world again at last, and I am not alone."

He shook his head slightly, studying his scribbling upon the ground. "How would you have awakened me, Hardin?" he asked, his voice nearly a whisper. "How did you awaken your brother?"

A strange question, but Hardin answered readily. "A hand on the shoulder to-"

"No, no," Sydney interrupted, his eyes meeting Hardin's. There was an emptiness there that touched Hardin's heart with its longing. "Show me."

Hesitantly, Hardin rose and went to kneel beside Sydney, placing his right hand on the cast metal plates which served as the mage's left shoulder. "Like this," he said simply, as he shook him gently, taking the hand of the other arm in his own. Bittersweet memories came drifting back, and he sighed, remembering Philip's sobs as the boy buried his face in Hardin's chest, his arms around Hardin's waist. "It wasn't anything-"

His words were cut off as Sydney's metal arms slipped around his waist, holding him tightly. Overwhelmed by the memories, Hardin's head lowered, and his left hand drifted up to tousle Sydney's hair as he had done with Philip. Whether Sydney's dreams were simple nightmares or divine visions, they obviously caused him much anguish; Hardin realized that despite the comfort Sydney received from his nightly consorts, he must have been starving for someone with whom to share more than a warm body and a blanket. And so he knelt there for a time, holding Sydney's slender form in his arms, feeling the weight of the mage's head upon his shoulder without awkwardness, despite the discomfort Sydney's earlier advances had given him. It was the first time he'd had such intimate contact with anyone since before he'd been imprisoned, and to his surprise, even with Sydney, that closeness was welcome.

The moment was shattered, however, when he felt Sydney turn his head, his lips pressing tenderly against Hardin's throat as one of the metal hands slipped beneath the leather of the jacket he wore. The cold sharpness of the blades was dulled by the layer of fabric between them and Hardin's skin, lending them a strange feel, gentle but spidery as they caressed his back, slipping down further...

Hardin pulled away in shock as he realized what Sydney was doing, causing the mage to draw back as well, since he'd been leaning against Hardin. "By the gods, Sydney, what was that about?" he exclaimed, leaping to his feet.

Oddly enough, Sydney was wearing a sly smile, seemingly not offended in the slightest as he leaned forward again, resting his chin in his hand. "I thought you might like it," he said simply.

"I told you before, I have no such interest in you!"

Sydney raised an amused eyebrow as his intense eyes pointedly glanced down from Hardin's. "Your voice may say that, but your body says otherwise," he observed wryly.

Hardin felt his face grow hot - he'd been hoping desperately that Sydney would not notice. "It doesn't surprise me that you know exactly how to poke and prod to get whatever reaction you wish out of people."

Sydney shrugged. "That is part of what makes me an extraordinary lover, so I have been told."

Hardin's face grew hotter still, and a strangled growl came from his throat, as he was unable to put his anger into words. How could Sydney play upon his emotions that way - use even those precious memories of Philip to get him right where he wanted him? Behind Sydney, Aiden still lay sleeping despite Hardin's outburst, and he suddenly found it incredibly disturbing. Sydney really _was_ willing and able to do exactly as he wished with anyone he chose.

Sydney's smugness vanished suddenly into exasperation. "Hardin, I truly meant no harm,"he began, but Hardin cut him off.

"No more of your little tricks," he growled. "Not on me. I won't give you a chance again. For all I care, you can delude yourself with your gods and their prophecies, but don't delude yourself by thinking you can have me."

With that, he turned to go back to the camp, but a voice called out after him. "If that is what you wish, there will be no more... tricks." There was a pause, then his voice called out again with a more knowing edge to it. "Sleep well, dear Hardin."

Hardin paused, almost turning back in disgusted anger, but forced himself to keep walking.

* * *

Rising early the next morning, Hardin definitely did not feel rested. The night's agitation had left him lying awake even after his shift had ended, thinking furious thoughts, and when he'd finally drifted off to sleep...

He shouldn't have been surprised, he supposed. Prison in itself was bad enough, and knowing all the time that his little brother from whom he had been so suddenly separated needed him, that made it a living hell. After months in hell, of course the mind tried to accept it as something normal, something it could tolerate. Of course he would dream of it, of agonizing, endless hours spent doing nothing but worrying helplessly and listening to the curses and cries of those in the cells around him. Some, old comrades of his, had even been cursing him.

He'd not been frightened in the dream - what made it more of a nightmare was that he'd simply accepted it. It was only upon waking that he felt a profound sense of anger; he was free now, and it simply wasn't fair that those feelings still could return to him. He'd die before he went through that experience again.

It was that fervent sentiment that left him less angry when his eyes met Sydney's, as they were preparing to break camp. After the cold loneliness of the dream, his indignation towards Sydney seemed rather inconsequential, especially as the man's generosity had helped him to come a long way towards recovering from his time in prison. Besides, Hardin had been every bit as ill-behaved in his own way, spying on Sydney in his sleep, even if Sydney hadn't seemed to mind. In fact, that had probably been what provoked such behavior in the first place - Hardin's dream had shaken him badly enough, and he knew it to be only a dream. In Sydney's case...

Yes, he'd probably overreacted - it had just been a poor judgment borne of anxiety on Sydney's part. There was no point in holding a grudge. Now that the mage knew better, he wouldn't do such a thing again, after all. The smile he gave Hardin seemed to say that he understood. And if there seemed to be a sly edge to that smile... well, he usually did have a shrewd look about him. Hardin decided to be wary, even if he had forgiven the man.

Not long after the sun had reached its peak in the sky, Hardin caught the scent of salt water on the mild breeze, something he hadn't smelled for years. It meant they were close, Duncan told him, for Leá Monde lay at the ocean's edge, upon a peninsula formed by the earthquake that had killed thousands, ending the great city's prosperity.

Hardin had heard some of the details about that event, though he'd been only a boy when it had happened, and living far to the north. "Is it true, then, that the quake disrupted the land so badly that there is no way in or out of the city?" he asked.

"Close enough," Duncan replied. "There only be one natural way in, far as I know, and it be no simple path. A man can get in below ground, through the cellar, and even that be a difficult route, thanks to the way the ground split apart. Many of the buildings above still be mostly standin' though - and could've been rebuilt easy enough, if ye ask me - but thanks to the Dark and the road in, none but a madman would want to live there."

"And so we shall!" Domenic commented cheerfully from a few paces ahead of them, where he led the horses, and those around him laughed.

Hardin chuckled himself, despite his curiosity. Whatever made them refer to Leá Monde as the "dark city", whatever cryptic comments they'd made about it, it couldn't be anywhere near as bad as the absurd rumors he'd heard, if they were willing to go in so casually.

A short time later, they reached the seaside, and began to follow an old highway paved with cracked and weathered brick that stretched southward along the coastline. Hardin, having been on assignments inland for so long, and then confined to a tiny cell for many months, stared out into the ocean in wonder - it seemed to stretch on into infinity below the clear blue sky. The land sloped upwards, changing in time from a sandy beach to jagged coastal cliffs, and when they finally reached the crest, the great city was laid out before them. Even from such a distance, the pale stone buildings formed aesthetically pleasing lines and shapes, and the spires and dome of the great cathedral rose above them majestically, shining in the afternoon sun, and Hardin saw little evidence that would have caused him to believe the city was a ruin.

Continuing down the highway brought them nearly to the sharp cliffs of the ravine separating the mainland from the ruined city, and as they approached, Hardin began to see glimpses of the city's devastation - the crumbled tops of buildings and great cracks in the outer wall. Padric pointed out a cracked stone structure on the ground near a low, broken wall, telling Hardin that there lay the stairs that led down into the cellar, the one route in, but the brethren left the disused highway for the rocky ground and passed by it, not even slowing.

Hardin frowned. "Where then are we to go?"

"There be only one _natural_ way in, I told you," Duncan reminded him. "And it be not wide enough for a horse and cart by far, so either we leave them for the rovin' thieves, or take a bit different approach."

One natural way... "Sydney's teleportation, then," Hardin supposed.

"Not exactly, but close," Padric replied. "I am not entirely sure how it works myself; I only know that it does. It has something to do with creating a magical... portal, you could say. Something to do with the planes, or perhaps the Dark can mold the fabric of space as easily as it can bring forth the elements-"

"It's beyond our ken either way," Duncan said with a shrug. "All we know, all ye need to know, is a man takes a single step, and he finds himself somewhere else. It's made things far easier for us." He glanced sideways at Hardin, a somewhat wicked grin upon his face. "Knowing you an' the way you like to have solid ground under yer feet, ye'll be wantin' to take a deep breath, I think."

What was that supposed to mean? Hardin tried not to play into Duncan's teasing by showing his sudden unease, and merely shrugged. "Just give me a warning," he told the smaller man, who chuckled and nodded.

The brethren continued on their way, skirting the edge of the ravine, until they halted near the remains of an ancient stone building, low and flat against the ground. The roof had caved in, and little remained of the walls, but the paved area nearby, visible now through the gaps in the shorter wall that enclosed it, seemed to indicate that it had once stabled horses. A wide barred gate of iron stood almost comically intact between the remains of the wall, and was even locked with a padlock and chains.

Approaching the gate, Sydney drew a key from somewhere within his cloak and set about unlocking it, as Padric, Kermiak, and a few others stepped forward, loosing the weapons they carried. It seemed bizarre to Hardin, considering that only a few paces from the gate the stone wall had crumbled, leaving a gap that two broad men could easily have walked through side by side. He didn't ask, though; already he'd learned that around the brethren of Müllenkamp, it was best to simply trust that they knew what they were doing much better than he did.

When the chains had been pulled away, Sydney pushed the gates open, and Padric and the others entered - and vanished from sight before Hardin's eyes. Fortunately, this time he didn't gasp or step back in astonishment; he'd seen enough in the past weeks that he was almost becoming accustomed to such things. "This would be the 'portal' you spoke of, I take it," he asked Duncan, who almost looked disappointed that he hadn't given much of a reaction to be teased about.

"Aye, tis the gate that serves as the entrance, and the exit be in the mines below the city," Duncan confirmed. "The horses be safe there, and 'tis only a short walk to our rooms in the city's keep. Now and then a creature may wander in from elsewhere in the mines tho', so our fighters go in first to secure the place."

Those who had gone in reappeared almost immediately, stepping out of thin air from all appearances. "'Tis all clear," Kermiak told Sydney, and the mage nodded, motioning for Domenic and Aiden to lead the horses forward through the gate after the fighters had gone through once more. Upon reaching a certain point, the two young men, the horses, and the cart all vanished at once, and this time Hardin had to try a bit harder not to give any reaction. Four horses and an entire cart!

The other brethren began to follow as Sydney stood on, watching, and Duncan nudged Hardin's arm. "This be your warning, friend," he said with a chuckle. "Not that ye need to be concerned about it, but it can be a mite unnerving the first time."

"My thanks," Hardin replied as they stepped forward with the others. He was determined that he wouldn't flinch at this; it wasn't that he minded Duncan's good-natured ribbing, but he was rather tired of being constantly startled by each and every thing the brethren did.

Thus, he was quite satisfied when he only blinked and stopped short after a strange rushing sensation filled his head, and a single step took him from the sunny cliffs and ocean breeze to a dim, torch-lit chamber. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and then he found the brethren's familiar figures bustling about the chamber, unhitching the horses and taking boxes and barrels from the cart. He quickly moved aside as more of the brethren stepped out of the darkness behind him, not skipping a beat as they went to aid their fellows. With a shrug and a glance over his shoulder as the last of Sydney's followers came through, he went to help in the unloading as well.

Halfway across the chamber to where the horses were being tethered, the composure he'd been so proud of was shattered when a metal hand fell upon his arm. He flinched before he could stop himself, knowing for a fact Sydney had not been present a moment ago. "You are weary, are you not?" the mage's voice asked at his side. "You did not sleep well last night."

"No thanks to you," Hardin muttered, removing his arm from Sydney's touch as inoffensively as he could.

Sydney ducked his head, not quite hiding a wide smirk. He didn't look the slightest bit regretful of what he'd done, Hardin thought with mild irritation. "Anyhow, you've no need to help us; we can manage perfectly well with one less set of arms. Rest yourself, Hardin - you are our guest here."

"I thank you, but I don't mind working as the rest of your men do," Hardin assured him, still a bit wary. "I refuse to take advantage of your hospitality-"

"Ah, but that is impossible," Sydney said, giving him a charming smile. "Hospitality is not hospitality unless it is given freely, is it? Besides, I am no slaver - if one of my own is tired or unwell, I would likewise ask him to rest. And also, I must tell you something. Come, sit," he instructed Hardin, motioning towards one of the crates that the brethren had already unloaded. "You are taller than I, and staring up at you makes my neck ache."

Hardin did so, somewhat taken aback by Sydney's amicable manner, which seemed quite unexpected after the way he'd practically shouted at the mage the night before. Sydney seated himself on another crate across from him. "Doubtless you've heard the rumors about Leá Monde, have you not?" he asked, folding his hands in his lap.

"Who hasn't?" Hardin replied. "I imagine the tales must have been all over the land before they reached me, judging by how tall they'd grown."

"Oh?" Sydney regarded him with amused curiosity. "What do they say?"

"Ridiculous things. Stories better told by my childhood friends around the campfire than the grown men who told them in taverns a decade later. Tales of demons prowling the streets and hordes of the walking dead falling upon any living who go near." The stories he'd heard had always seemed foolish to him, and seemed more so now that he was sitting within the city himself. There was nothing intimidating at all about his surroundings, except perhaps that the dim torchlight and rough stone walls enclosing him made him feel a bit uneasy after dreaming of a similarly lit prison only hours before.

"I see," Sydney murmured, smiling to himself. "Well then, you can see already that these tales were exaggerated ever so slightly."

"Indeed."

"However," Sydney told him with a knowing smile, "there is a mite of truth within them. The Dark runs strong here in Leá Monde, as the others have told you, and many strange things occur here - things that are not terribly different from the stories you have been told. The dead can walk, given reason; and certain fey creatures occasionally do make an appearance, though rarely, and never in the parts of the city the brethren and I make use of."

Hardin looked at the mage skeptically; his manner was rather casual for speaking of such things. "Surely you must be joking."

Sydney shook his head, growing more stern. "Hardin, I speak the truth. Leá Monde can be a dangerous place for those who are not well-acquainted with the Dark," he said gravely. "Even the brethren do not venture into certain areas without a very good reason. And you, skilled as you may be with a sword - you would be near helpless within these walls. I would ask that you never venture beyond these few rooms, the open streets above, and the keep alone - and never set foot outside the keep at night."

He did look completely serious now... but the man was speaking of fairy tales. Walking dead, unearthly creatures - Hardin could accept that Sydney believed in gods and prophecies, but to believe in such things as these! Perhaps he was mad after all, Hardin thought.

"Now, Hardin," Sydney reproved him, "you have seen many unusual things in the past weeks, have you not? Things you would never have believed, had I not shown them to you?"

That was true, of course, and Hardin couldn't deny that. "...Very well then, I agree," he told Sydney, more to put his mind at ease than because he believed him. It was not a particularly large request, at any rate.

"Very good," Sydney told him. "As I told you once before, your obedience is more important to your own well-being than to mine - do keep that in mind, won't you?"

"Begging your pardon, Sydney," a voice broke in, and the two of them turned to see Domenic approach. "Shall I ride north into the Graylands tonight to fetch supplies? If so, we need not settle all the horses in, after all..."

"No, I think it is a bit late," Sydney replied. "You would have to ride quickly in order to return before sundown, and both we and the horses have travelled far already today. We can make do tonight with what we have remaining from the journey, and whatever may still be in the larders. I shall send someone tomorrow."

The young man nodded and returned to his work with the horses, and Sydney rose, turning back to Hardin. "I must tend to the business of my followers now, Hardin - it's been quite some time since we were last in the city. If you'll excuse me..."

"Yes, of course." As the mage departed, going to speak to a few of the brethren elsewhere, Hardin rose as well, to get out of everyone's way as they finished unloading the cart. Looking around to see what might be next for them, Hardin saw Padric looking at him from the far end of the room. A slight frown was on his face, as if he was somewhat troubled. Upon seeing that Hardin had spotted him, the taller man gave a small nod, and gestured for Hardin to join him.

"Do you mind if I ask you a rather personal question, Hardin?" Padric asked in a low voice as Hardin drew near.

"Not at all," Hardin replied, curious to know what had Padric frowning like that. "As long as you do not mind that depending on the question, I may not answer."

Padric nodded. "Of course. I'm curious - has Sydney... I'm not sure how to put this delicately, I'm afraid," he began hesitantly. "Has Sydney expressed an interest in you?"

Somewhat surprised at the question, Hardin frowned as well. "You could say that," he replied quietly.

"And you do not reciprocate, do you?"

"Certainly not." It was no surprise that if Padric's talent had allowed him to learn of the matter at all, it had picked up on Hardin's annoyance as well.

"Hmm." Padric's puzzled frown grew deeper.

Hardin waited to see if he would say more, but he did not. "What is it?"

Padric hesitated for a moment, then beckoned for Hardin to follow him. "Come, let us go to secure the keep. Beasts rarely wander so far into the city, but I always go ahead, just in case. Keep your sword handy, though most likely you will not need to use it."

Obliging, Hardin followed the man through the caverns, up a crumbling staircase and across a crude but sturdy bridge over an area where the quake had caused the ground to drop away entirely. Fresh air, late afternoon sunlight, and the faint sound of rushing water greeted them as Padric opened a door a few rooms beyond, which opened onto a back alley of the ancient city. The buildings seemed to be mostly intact just as Duncan had said, but had fallen into disrepair. Despite the early season, vines climbed up the side of many of the surfaces, while moss and lichen had crept into every crack and crevice caused by the quake, causing the stone walls to crumble further. The wooden shutters and doors set in them were grey and mildewed from the exposure, while metal locks and hinges were red with rust. Even so, Hardin found the city still held an air of dignity in the uncomplicated lines of the structures and the tight fit of the paving stones that remained intact, as Padric led him beaneath an archway onto a wider avenue.

"It is odd," Padric said finally, pausing at what appeared to be a dead end; the road was completely blocked by a wall of stone and rubble. "Do not misunderstand, Hardin, I know Sydney to be a good man... but he is very much accustomed to getting whatever he wants."

"You think he will persist, then?" Hardin asked, troubled by Padric's words. If there was a repeat of the previous night's events... Nightmares or no, he had told Sydney that he would not tolerate such behavior again, and he meant it.

"I could not say," Padric replied. "I would not think he would bother you so, but one reason he always gets the things he desires is because he is very perceptive, especially about people. He never sets his sights on something - or someone - unattainable."

"Until now," Hardin finished the thought.

"Yes. As I said, odd." Climbing up on some weathered crates that were stacked in the street, Padric pulled himself up to the low, flat rooftop of one of the buildings. Hardin followed his lead and did likewise, dropping to the streets again once they'd passed the blockage. "I know not why he would single you out, if you were unlikely to be responsive. I don't believe that it's something you should be concerned about, but it certainly is curious."

"Hmm." Of course, he hadn't been entirely unresponsive, Hardin had to admit to himself, but certainly Sydney could tell the difference between honest desire and... He tried to put that out of his mind quickly; it was not something he wanted to dwell on, and definitely not anything he wanted Padric picking up on accidentally. Sydney had already humiliated him enough.

Apparently not noticing Hardin's discomfort, Padric showed Hardin through the streets to a shadowy alcove where the walls were thick with climbing vines, and opened the simple wooden door set there into what appeared to be a courtyard. "This is the keep, where we stay during our time here," Padric informed him, and Hardin glanced around at the area, open to the sky and covered with wayward greenery, which even wound around an ancient statue in one corner. "Not here specifically," Padric continued with a chuckle, "but in the rooms beyond, to the right. To the left lies a forge, though we rarely have use for it, and here..."

Padric led him through the long, dim hallway that comprised the backbone of the keep, and Hardin's trouble was forgotten as his friend showed him around. Two of the doors led to segmented rooms with several beds, used as the sleeping quarters, and another room was lined with shelves reaching all the way to the ceiling, filled with books. Hardin was intrigued, though he was not much of a reader. There had been little time and littler money in his life for such luxuries as books, which were rather rare and expensive to begin with, and so such a collection impressed him a great deal.

These chambers, unlike the rest of Leá Monde, had been restored for the brethren's use, and rather well, at that; Padric commented that Sydney would never have left his books unattended for months at a time unless he was certain they would not be damaged by water seeping in through the walls. "And as he did not wish to look as though he cared more for them than he did for us, he took the same care for our quarters as well," Padric remarked with a smile, "though we are waterproof."

By the time Padric showed him to the large chamber where they would be eating their meals, some of the other brethren had arrived as well, and they set about cleaning and lighting the ovens for the night's dinner. Padric excused himself to go help with the transport of the supplies they had brought; there was much to be done before the spring holiday, which was to take place in only a few days.

Having been excused from the chores by Sydney, Hardin decided to take the mage's advice and relax for the time being. Even after spending so long in the open, Hardin found that being within the confines of stone walls again left him a bit uncomfortable, and so he spent the remaining daylight hours in the open air and salt breeze. All was still as he sat in thoughtful silence at the edge of the wide river that ran through the area west of the keep, the only sounds being those of rushing water, birdsong, and wind in the budding foliage of early spring. The slanting sunlight lent the pale stone of the buildings a reddish hue as the evening wore on, until the dusk had grown deep enough that Hardin recalled Sydney's warnings. For the dark, cursed city that Leá Monde had been described as, it certainly gave him a feeling of peace, he thought as he reluctantly returned to the keep.


	4. Borne on Wings of Fire

Life in the keep of Leá Monde was busy for the few days remaining before the celebration, filled with a great deal of cooking, cleaning, and rushing around. Duncan confided to Hardin that things were not usually so hectic - they had been detained in the village they'd spent the winter in for nearly a week longer than they'd intended, due to the cardinal's men lurking about. Hardin helped with what he could, despite Sydney's excusing him; it felt good to make himself useful.

The day before the celebration, Hardin discovered, the brethren fasted from dawn until the sun rose the next morning. Curious about their customs, Hardin asked a few questions, and learned that it was a symbolic gesture: From the barrenness of winter, the coming season would refresh the earth in the same way that the first meal of the coming day would refresh their bodies. Since he was not of their number, they naturally did not expect Hardin to keep the fast with them. Those who remained cooking even offered him some of what they prepared for the following day's meals, but Hardin simply thanked them and refused. His strength had been restored to the point where it would not be a problem to go without food for a day, and he thought it would feel rather impolite to partake while all those around him abstained.

All the chores were therefore lighter that day, though when he sought out Padric and Duncan to inquire further about what the coming day held, he found that they had left Leá Monde with several others, to go to the forest which lay to the east and gather firewood. Sydney was willing to answer Hardin's questions, however, when the two crossed paths in the library.

"Tomorrow is one of the two days of the year in which the world will be perfectly balanced," Sydney told him. "Neither darkness nor light will hold sway over the land, as the hours of daylight perfectly match the hours of night - and though we of Müllenkamp's legacy serve the Dark, a proper balance is of more importance than our own power. It is not only a time of rebirth, but of equilibrium for all forces."

"So then," Hardin inquired, "your magic grows weaker as the days grow longer?"

"On the contrary," Sydney replied, carefully placing aside the book he'd been reading. "As the light grows brighter, the shadows grow deeper. Our powers must increase, to keep the balance. There is more to it than that, naturally, but it is nothing that one who does not serve the Dark would ever need to know."

"Ah. I see." He didn't, exactly, but as Sydney had said, it was nothing that concerned him. "And what of the sudden need for more firewood? We certainly have enough to last for some time, yet."

"We shall rise early tomorrow, before the sun has come, and call upon the elements for guidance and favor until the Dark's season returns. The fire must remain burning all day, and will light our festivities once night has fallen." He paused, regarding Hardin with a sudden smirk. "And in case you were wondering, fear not - the tales of human sacrifice and cannibalism at such rituals are merely inventions of the Cardinal's. You are not to become Müllenkamp's dinner."

Hardin hadn't even heard that particular rumor, and in a way he was glad; if it had been true, it would have been a possible explanation for the curious, critical look he often found Sydney staring at him with. Of course, the alternative explanation was only slightly less unpleasant.

Not that the mage was unfriendly, or in any way had overstepped his bounds again. He had not said another word in pursuit of Hardin, and so Hardin had mostly let his guard down. Sydney seemed pleasant enough company when the two of them spoke - he was intelligent and charming, and quite amusing when he chose to be, particularly when he spoke his thoughts about the followers of St. Iocus. This he did with such cynical irreverence that Hardin was not sure whether he should laugh or be offended, despite his lack of faith. In fact, Sydney had ceased to wear his thick cloak inside the walls of the keep, exposing the whole of the tattoo Hardin had glimpsed the edges of upon Sydney's upper back by night. It was just like Sydney, Hardin thought, to have himself branded with the inverse of the Rood, Iocus' holy symbol, and then flaunt it by going around bare to the waist.

Sydney had a certain manner of quiet and yet shameless defiance that was completely at odds with the well-mannered way Hardin had grown up, and it fascinated him as much as it irritated him. In a way, Hardin supposed, he wished he could be so bold - that he could scoff in the face of the world the way Sydney did - but it just was not in his nature.

But that had nothing to do with the conversation at hand, and Hardin nodded seriously. "I'm glad to hear it - you and your followers have fed me so well in the last few weeks that I wondered if you were fattening me like a calf," he replied, straightfaced.

Sydney shook his head reproachfully. "Tsk, tsk... Such talk, after we took you in out of the kindness of our hearts! Do not speak so, Hardin, or the idea may begin to appeal to me."

"Hmph." Hardin grinned in spite of himself. "And so, besides you and your savages partaking of the sacrificial rogue, what more is there to the day?"

"Aside from the usual snatching infants from their mothers' breasts and placing curses upon all those we meet," Sydney said dryly, "a great deal of merriment. A vigil will be kept for the rising sun - during which we shall call the elements as I said - and the rest of the day shall be spent at rest or play, however one wishes to spend it. When the evening comes, and the darkness has fallen once more, we shall offer our praise to the gods in dance; and after the dance comes a more ordinary celebration."

"Your followers dance, do they?" Sydney had the grace for it, of course, but some of the brethren... Hardin could not picture Duncan dancing for the life of him.

"Not all of them. Those who have the skill and have learned the steps shall dance, but we do not discriminate against those who lack the ability. After all, even Iocus' extortionists - excuse me, holy priests," Sydney corrected himself smoothly, with another of his cynical smiles, "know that they can wring no money from those who have none. Among the brethren, each has a talent to use in the service of the gods, whether that is dancing, cooking, woodworking, or any number of other skills - and why would the gods require more of a man than what they granted him?"

"I'm sure I do not know," Hardin muttered. If there were gods, that would be one of the first questions he'd have asked them.

From the way Sydney's smile suddenly did not seem to be in his eyes, it was obvious that he'd picked up on the thought, but he said nothing on the matter. "Anyhow, our Lady was a dancer as well as a priestess," he told Hardin. "Some called her dancing scandalous, but it was merely the expression of a gift the gods granted her - a way to focus her spiritual power. It is a tradition we have kept, both the dancing itself and the accusations of lewdness."

The latter would come regardless of the dancing, Hardin thought, between those looks Sydney had been shooting at him and the way he dressed, in leggings of black leather cut so low that they were very nearly indecent. No one but Hardin seemed to find it unusual, though, so he supposed it was only that his upbringing had been more conservative than most. But by the gods, how he sometimes wished that Sydney would at least put on a shirt, no matter how difficult it might be with his metal limbs - his waist was so slender that he could almost have been mistaken for a woman, and Hardin found that strangely disturbing. And naturally, Sydney seemed to enjoy that aspect of it.

"Though you are not one of us, you are welcome to watch the rituals," Sydney told him, looking up at him curiously. "I would invite you to participate as well, if it pleased you... Do you dance, Hardin?"

"...No." Given his status, he should have learned a few dances at some point for social functions, but after his parents passed on, he had never had the time for such social functions anyway.

"I didn't suppose that you did," Sydney commented, still looking him over with a critical eye. "You do not appear to be the dancing sort... but then, everyone has their peculiarities, do they not?"

Hardin couldn't resist. "Some more than others."

"Touche."

* * *

The following morning, Hardin opted to rise before dawn with the brethren for the first ritual as Sydney had invited him. Although the others in the sleeping quarters had tried to remain quiet, they still managed to awaken him from his dreams - which were once more filled with memories of lonely confinement, and so he was grateful to them rather than bothered by it. Dark or not, awkward or not, it was a great relief to be under open sky, as the arcane rituals of Müllenkamp began.

As dark as it was, Hardin could not make out many of the details of the sunrise ritual from where he stood, back from the circle in which the brethren sat. They were cloaked all in black, except for Sydney and five others, who wore robes of white, and Hardin might not have even known that they were there if not for the murmured responses to the ceremonial words Sydney spoke in some foreign tongue as he stood in the center of their circle - ancient Kildean, he supposed, if what he'd learned about their order's origins were any indication.

What he did make out was slightly unnerving to him, even though it had been many years since he'd had any real faith in the teachings of those who denounced such groups as Müllenkamp to be heretics and demon worshippers. Though he'd seen many of the brethren demonstrate what Duncan had described as their innate talents, he'd never actually witnessed any spellcasting aside from Sydney's teleportation, and watching them call the elements was fairly disturbing. Flames flickered without fuel, the earth trembled beneath his feet - a small bolt of lightning even shot out of the sky to strike in the midst of them. Perhaps the most worrisome thing about it was that they all seemed to take it as perfectly natural, which made Hardin wonder what else they might find perfectly natural. No wonder they seemed to live so peacefully, if even such things as these were commonplace!

Fortunately, the rest of the day mostly conformed to a more ordinary definition of natural. Without chores to do, the brethren mostly spent the day relaxing, chatting with each other and strolling the streets of the city. It was almost easy to forget that Leá Monde had been desolate for two decades, with the streets full of movement and laughter once more. The women among them had woven garlands of greenery and early blooming flowers into their hair, and many of the men wore wreaths of the same on their heads or around their necks. One of the women, a tall blonde named Kirrienne, even placed such a wreath around Hardin's neck when he encountered her and two other women walking near his favorite spot by the river. He needed to smile more, she said, especially since it was a holiday.

Hardin simply murmured his thanks and continued on his way; he'd thought he was acting fairly cheerful. He wondered vaguely if that was her way of making a pass at him, which might have raised his spirits a bit if he hadn't been thinking that maybe he should have said more to her, if that was the case. She was an attractive enough woman, certainly, and a kind one from what he'd seen of her, but he did not know her very well.

On his way back to the keep, still pondering the matter, he passed Sydney, and the mage seemed to find it quite amusing when he happened to pick up the stray thoughts. "Have another," he told Hardin, adorning him with one of the garlands someone had hung around his own neck. "She is right, you know - today is a holiday. Relax."

It was an easy task on such a day, and Hardin did find that his mood lightened as the day went on. Padric, Duncan, and Kermiak invited him to go outside the city to go fishing with them, and so much of the afternoon was spent lazing on the rocks that jutted out into the ocean beneath the higher cliffs, talking and laughing. The fish were not biting, but none of them really cared.

They returned as the sky to the west grew red with the approaching dusk, the sun a shimmering disc of gold as it sank towards the ocean. It was a beautiful end to the finest day Hardin could recall, and as darkness fell, the brethren began to gather in the courtyard once more for the second ceremony Sydney had described - the dance.

The fire that had been kindled during the early hours of the morning still burned brilliantly, having been fanned higher with the approach of evening so that it flared up nearly as high as the walls surrounding the courtyard. The mellow smell of incense drifted on the breeze, mingling with the crisp scent of the flowers from which their garlands had been made, as Hardin and his companions seated themselves back against one of the walls as the other brethren were doing.

Several of those gathered at the edge of the fire's light had drums set before them, and once darkness had fallen, a single drum began to beat a slow rhythm. One by one, others joined in, adding their own rhythm and weaving the sound of the drums into a complex tapestry that Hardin almost could not believe was drums alone. Steady and smooth, it seemed to be pulsing in time with his own life, the beat of his heart... or was it merely that even his blood ached to join the song?

His attention was drawn away by a sudden motion, as Sydney entered the courtyard and came to stand so close before the fire that a stray breeze could have burned him. He stood there alone for a moment, regarding it with his usual distant gaze, then stepped back to give a deep and graceful bow towards the flames, his head lowered as if in respect. When he raised his head again, Hardin saw a strange, eager smile on his lips. Somewhere at the edge of the circle of light, a pair of flutes joined the drums, and Sydney began to dance.

If Sydney was merely fascinating at other times, Hardin realized, he was nothing short of mesmerizing when he danced. His mechanical arms did not hinder his grace in the least, and Hardin's suspicions that they were somehow enchanted deepened, as they moved in the same elegant way as the rest of the mage's body. His swaying to the beat of the drums was like the limbs of a slender tree blowing in a gentle wind, his face turned up to the heavens as if he were receiving a divine gift. Perhaps he was.

Others were joining Sydney, men and women, rising from their places around the fire to offer their gift of praise to the gods as well. Hardin was slightly surprised when Padric joined them, but for all his hardened warrior's body, he moved with remarkable grace, weaving in and out among the others in the elaborate pattern the dance dictated.

Circling each other, they clapped their hands and whirled on to face their next partner with a practiced precision, and yet there was an untamed, wild quality to it that Hardin had never seen in the dances of the courts. The beat of the drums was becoming faster, slowly but steadily, and the dancers' graceful movements kept pace. Each dancer slipped past the next as one without a care, as if the courtyard belonged to him or her alone, and still even the best of them looked clumsy next to Sydney's fluid motions. His up-turned eyes were seemingly fixed upon something far beyond the mortal realm as the dance grew ever wilder.

The drums pounded with urgency and excitement as the dance continued, and Sydney and his followers leapt and whirled at a frenetic pace. The mage's eyes closed in rapture, and still he moved amongst the other dancers flawlessly. Hardin found himself straining to not let the man out of his sight for a second as he danced beyond a taller man for an instant, or a tongue of flame from the fire at the center flared up between them. Sydney had said earlier that their dancing was a gift of praise to the gods, and it seemed that his followers were offering their all just as he was. And if that were so, it was no wonder that he was their high priest, for if there were gods, Hardin doubted they'd be able to take their eyes from him any more than he could.

After a time the drums' pace slowed again, and the melody of the flutes halted. The dancers slowed, and began to return to their places at the edge of the circle, but the drums continued their steady rhythm. Finally only Sydney was left standing before the fire on nearly the opposite side from Hardin, holding a length of pale silk in one gleaming hand. That eager smile remained on his lips, and his eyes glittered expectantly. Raising his arms above his head, crossing them casually at the wrists, he approached the fire, his slender waist swaying with each step, the silk fluttering about his shoulders.

So mesmerized was Hardin that at first he didn't notice anything strange about the lone woman who stood before Sydney, posed as he was with her arms raised and swaying hips; after all, her back was turned to him, and her hair pulled up, and he could not see her face. She wore very little, from what Hardin could tell through the flames, aside from myriad golden ornaments dangling from hair and hip. A tattoo covered most of her back in the same manner that Sydney's did, though the Rood she bore was not inverted as his, and a scarf of some thin fabric trailed from her fingertips as she twirled in the midst of the flames, an echo of Sydney's movements.

...In the midst of the flames?

Hardin blinked, but the woman was still there. The flames rose all around her, even _within_ her, and Hardin fancied he could see Sydney's body right through hers, but she was there, mirroring Sydney's movements, and even managing to match his grace. Despite the heat of the blaze, Hardin's blood ran cold. Though the woman's back was turned to Hardin, he could see Sydney's face clearly, and his smile was that of a man greeting an old, beloved friend as the two danced to the drums' beat.

Sydney was dancing in a circle around the phantom woman, drawing the scarf through the air in an arc as he spun, the half-cape he wore flaring out behind him. Hardin watched, spellbound, as Sydney's light steps led him around the fire almost to where Hardin sat. He and the woman turned their backs to each other, but still remained perfectly synchronized as they wound their scarves around their wrists, raising their arms overhead again as they swayed in unison.

Sydney's eyes snapped up suddenly to meet Hardin's, holding him fast with their intensity. Still hips swayed and back arched; Sydney didn't miss a step as his eyes pierced into Hardin's soul, hard and sensual and inviting.

Hardin's mouth felt suddenly dry. Sydney was... beautiful. There was no other way to put it. Eyes burning with passion, lips parted seductively, perfectly poised and floating across the floor as though his feet didn't touch the ground... He was beautiful, and though Hardin's mind hadn't comprehended it until that moment, he found that it was almost a physical ache, the need to reach out and meet those lips, to touch the skin that glinted gold in the light of the fire...

...What was he thinking?

With a great effort, he was able to wrench his eyes away from Sydney's stare, and he searched for something else, anything else, to focus on. Every beat of the drums seemed to speak to his desire, and finally he gave up on dignity and simply closed his eyes, willing himself to ignore the flickering light, the throbbing rhythm of the drums, the soft rustle of fabric as Sydney danced only a few feet away.

It seemed like hours had passed before the drums ceased, and the murmurs and soft laughter of the other brethren joined the crackling of the fire. Daring to open his eyes again, he found that Sydney had gone, and the woman had vanished. Many of the brethren were standing before the fire, tossing the garlands of flowers they'd worn into the blaze, but Duncan still sat beside Hardin, peering curiously at him. "Be something wrong, Hardin?"

"No, not really," Hardin lied. "I just... wasn't expecting that. The woman in the fire," he amended quickly. Yes, that could do for an excuse.

Duncan looked startled. "Woman in the fire? You saw her?"

Hardin began to feel even more unsettled. "She was there... did you not see her?"

"I've ne'er seen her myself," said Duncan, scratching his beard thoughtfully. "An' I ne'er heard of her appearin' to anyone outside the brethren. Tis Müllenkamp herself, ye know."

"That was Müllenkamp?" A shiver ran down Hardin's spine, though he'd wondered as much himself. The spirit of an ancient priestess, thousands of years dead... "What does it mean?"

"Well, from what I hear, she only appears to those among the brethren that be needin' something. Faith or confidence or what have ye. She reveals herself to them as a promise, that the gods be knowin' what they need. But..." His voice trailed off.

"But she shouldn't appear to someone who hasn't touched the Dark," Hardin finished. "Much less someone who has no faith in the gods in the first place."

"P'rhaps she meant to give ye some," Duncan offered.

That thought didn't ease Hardin's mind in the least. "There are plenty in this world with as little faith as I, and more need for it. Why single me out?"

Duncan shook his head helplessly. "I be no oracle, Hardin. Ye'd do better to ask Sydney if ye get a chance."

Sydney... Hardin cringed inwardly from the thought of facing him after what had just happened. The second Sydney saw him, he would know... if he didn't already.

A large hand clapped his shoulder, and as edgy as he was, he flinched at the touch. "Or you can simply not worry about it," Padric suggested, sitting down beside him. "If the gods want to tell you something, they'll find a way to make themselves clear eventually."

Of course Padric would understand, Hardin remembered. Padric could read his thoughts, he knew what was going on, and understood that he couldn't talk to Sydney... Padric could read his thoughts, Hardin thought in disgust as something occurred to him. And here he was, sitting down next to him, touching his shoulder...

From the way Padric's eyes narrowed, Hardin knew he'd picked up on that thought at least, and he was suddenly furious. He couldn't even keep a simple thought to himself. "What happens now?" he asked flatly, standing up and turning his back to his two friends. Going to the fire, he took the wreaths Kirrienne and Sydney had given him from around his neck and tossed them into the blaze as the others had done. The smoke from the two wreaths mingled as the flowers and leaves withered, and Hardin found it strangely ironic. "Is the holiday over, or is there something more?"

"Ye just saw the ceremony," Duncan told him, apparently not noticing that anything was wrong, and actually grateful that the subject had changed to something he could explain. "What comes now is the celebration. We're likely a mite looser than the religious folk ye're used to, when it comes to celebratin'. No one minds if ye overdo the drink, nor if ye find one of the woman to be willing. Ye're free to do what ye like, more 'r less, so long as it hurts no one else."

"I could use a few drinks, I suppose." As for the other... Hardin didn't want to think about it. Perhaps it might help him to forget about... but no. Even if Kirrienne had been making a pass at him earlier, he barely knew her, and it would be a terrible thing to use a woman in such a way even if he had.

Some of the brethren were bringing in tables from the dining hall, and loading a few of them with food, as well as a generous amount of drink. A few drinks, or maybe more than a few, could calm Hardin down, and he decided that was all he needed, along with some time to think. "If you don't mind, I'd like to be alone for awhile."

"Fine by me," Duncan said with a shrug, and Padric nodded. The larger man still had a slight frown on his face, and Hardin felt a little guilty. _Padric, if you can hear this, I'm sorry,_ he thought, concentrating on the words as he'd done with Sydney the night before their arrival. _I didn't mean to accuse you of... anything._

Padric didn't change expression or indicate in any way that he'd heard, but Hardin could hear his voice within his mind. _I understand; it must be difficult. Be true to yourself, though, Hardin - do what comes naturally, without fear of him... or of yourself. ...And nay, I won't say a word to Duncan._ "Take care, Hardin."

"Yes, you too," Hardin nodded. _Thank you._


	5. ...And Climbing Higher

Laughter rang out across the courtyard once again, and Hardin glowered down at the table before him as he tipped back his mug again. After having his few drinks, Hardin felt no less agitated. A bit less steady, to be certain, but that laughter from the other side of the fire grated on his raw nerves. It was impossible to simply let himself think the matter over logically while _he_ was over there.

Hardin had never seen Sydney in such a cheerful mood as he'd been in after the dance. The musicians among them had reconvened, and were playing folk tunes for those who still felt like dancing, who were many. Sydney had joined them, and though the dances were simple and required little finesse, he still outshone them by far - despite having had a few glasses of wine himself. As usual, several of his followers were clustered around him, but instead of his usual distant demeanor, he was chatting and joking with them as any normal man might have. Hardin had never heard him give an honest laugh before - Sydney's laughter had always been haughty, or tainted with bitterness. But this night, it was as if his heart was filled with joy.

Kirrienne came to sit down next to Hardin briefly, and he couldn't decide what he thought about that. She had told him that Sydney was always like this after such a ceremony. He enjoyed the dance, she said, as much as everyone else enjoyed watching him. It was obvious he was the gods' hand in the world just from the way he moved. And was Hardin all right? He looked troubled. After a bit of soul-searching, he assured her that he was fine, and no, he didn't want to talk. The drink had lowered his inhibitions, perhaps, but he found that even the thought of a possible intimate moment with her honestly did not do a thing for him. After a little while, she left him alone and went to join the dancing, and her laughter mixed with Sydney's just as the smoke from their two wreaths had. One that he should have wanted and didn't, and another that he shouldn't have wanted, and... did. Or so he'd thought for a few moments.

Hardin continued to sit by himself late into the night, ignoring those who tried to make conversation with him as he emptied the wooden mug before him again and again, wishing desperately that the drink would overcome him. Anything to stop his mind from wandering where it would each time the sound of Sydney's voice drifted across the courtyard. He couldn't even leave to go back to the sleeping quarters to escape it; occasionally while seeking distraction among the sight of the other brethren, he spotted a couple slipping away from the others, holding each other close as they left, whispering softly to each other.

He couldn't take it. He just couldn't take it. His mind told him one thing, and his body simply would not listen. The burning eyes, the swaying hips - they danced before him in memory, and he couldn't shut them out. Gods... he couldn't really have thought those things, could he? Why could he not get it clear in his mind that Sydney was no woman? Why did the man have to give him those damned looks, time and time again?

The turbulence of his thoughts left him so preoccupied that he never heard the footsteps behind him, until a fold of fabric brushed his shoulder and drifted down around his face. The softness of the silk was inviting against his weathered skin, and he inhaled sharply, breathing in the strong smell of incense that permeated the fabric, when a soft, singsong voice spoke.

"Tra la la, Hardin."

Hardin's blood ran cold, and though he knew what he would see, he turned. Sydney stood behind him, one arm outstretched to drape the silk scarf around Hardin's neck. With a flourish, he released it, and it fluttered to rest upon Hardin's shoulders.

Unable to speak through a suddenly tight throat, Hardin angrily snatched the silk away and dropped it. Sydney inclined his head playfully, regarding him with mock dismay. "Hardin..." he gently reproved him. "Will you not celebrate with us?"

"What is it that you want from me, Sydney?"

"So conflicted, so confused..." Sydney noted in an infuriatingly patronizing voice. "So much has happened to you in the past months. Cast those worries aside, for just one night, and let yourself be free."

Hardin slammed the mug he held down onto the table with such force that the handle cracked off in his hand. He barely took note of it, and simply tossed it aside. "I shall be free again when I've left you far behind me, Losstarot," Hardin growled dangerously. "Now leave me be. I want nothing more than to be left alone, without your tricks and your taunting."

He began to turn away, but thin metal blades arrested the motion, touching his chin and cheek with a gentleness that even hands of flesh would not have been able to surpass. Ever so slowly, Sydney turned Hardin's face back towards his own as he leaned closer. His face was flushed, whether from exertion or the wine Hardin couldn't tell. "I know... what you want," he murmured in a voice that grew ever softer, until the last word was a whisper.

Those eyes, those dark, piercing eyes, would not let Hardin look away as Sydney's left hand came up to stroke his cheek. The mage's lips were parted in a seductive smile, and Hardin unconsciously began to lean forward. Sydney's eyes closed as he leaned down, and Hardin found himself fascinated by the curve of his long, pale lashes. The soft burst of Sydney's breath touched his lips, warm and smelling of sweet wine, and his mouth opened to drink in that warmth.

The world, which had faded away unnoticed, abruptly reasserted itself as the musicians began to play a new tune. Suddenly Hardin realized what he had almost done, and he sprang to his feet in alarm. The ale made his head spin, and he put a hand to his head as he leaned back upon the table, away from Sydney, to avoid stumbling. As Sydney's face came into focus again, Hardin could make out the same inviting expression, and he suddenly became clear on exactly what must have been happening. "Is something the matter, Hardin?" Sydney asked innocently, taking a step closer.

Before Hardin had even the time to fully consider the action, his fist struck Sydney squarely in the chin, sending the mage tumbling backwards to the floor, knocking over a pile of firewood that had been stacked against the wall with a loud clattering. Sydney's expression was one of utter disbelief as he raised one metal claw to his face, and found blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He regarded it for a moment, then raised his astonished face to look at Hardin again. His expression hardened to pure, unmasked rage, his eyes burning with fury.

Hardin paid it no heed. "Was this the reason you took me in instead of killing me when you found me, Sydney?" he ranted, towering over Sydney with his fists still clenched. "So that you could use your damned compulsion to keep me as one of your little toys - another man-slave to fawn over you and indulge your every perverse whim? An easy mark, with little spirit left that you would have to break on your own?"

His voice rang in his own ears, and he suddenly realized he was shouting. A glance around told him that nearly everyone in the hall was staring at the two of them, and he took an uneasy step back as a few of the brethren rushed to Sydney's side. Sydney ignored them, still staring up at Hardin with silent rage.

"I thank you for the food, the shelter, and the clothing," Hardin said after a moment, forcing himself to lower his voice to a growl once more. "But it is not worth my soul, nor even my body. I am leaving."

Two of the brethren were helping Sydney to his feet as Hardin turned and began to walk away, but he didn't look back; he simply waited for the burst of fire or bolt from the heavens to strike him down as he departed, or the footsteps of Sydney's men as they rushed in to avenge their beloved master's honor.

Nothing of the sort happened, and Hardin emerged from the confines of the keep into the open streets of Leá Monde's town centre alone, in the depths of the night.

* * *

Though the moon shone brightly, Hardin found it was going to be difficult to find his way out of the ruins. The ale had left his body clumsy and his wits dulled, and he quickly realized that out of habit, he'd exited the keep not to the area of the city that would lead him to the portal in the mines, but to the streets that led him to the river where he so often found peace as he sat alone. After pondering the idea of going back through the keep, Hardin decided it didn't matter - he had no desire to come face to face with Sydney or any of his followers now, and he had no idea how to activate the portal anyway. And besides, he had been told that there was a normal route in and out of the city; even if it was a difficult one, he could handle it on his own, certainly. Below ground, through the cellar, Duncan had said, and from what others had said, he suspected it lay in this direction.

He surveyed the vine-covered buildings one by one, trying to determine which one might contain the tunnel that would lead him outside, but they all looked the same, at least to his clouded mind. It was a welcome dilemma, however; the time he spent in frustration over finding dead ends again and again kept him from thinking of what had transpired earlier. He'd reached up to touch his face once, feeling a stinging sensation beneath his short beard, and his hand had come away with traces of blood. Sydney's claws had been gentle and harmless when they'd caressed him, but when Hardin had jerked away, he'd cut himself on the razor edges. Once Sydney had a man in his clutches, he thought bitterly, they could not remove themselves unscathed until he allowed them to go free.

But now his mind was occupied with the task of finding his way out of the maze of ruined buildings and tunnels that could lead anywhere. At least they were not poorly lit, for somehow torches and lamps burned in small hollows that had been carved in the walls, though there were no signs that anyone had travelled down those paths recently.

Upon pulling himself up to an upper ledge, Hardin found a path leading through a darkened building, where sections of the floor had completely fallen away. The door on the other side, however, might lead somewhere more promising than the empty shells of houses he'd found so far, and so Hardin carefully made his way around the gaping holes in the tiles. With satisfaction, he discovered that he'd emerged on the other side of a portcullis that he'd been unable to open, and a thin metal gate beyond that marked the top of a staircase which led below ground once more. A faint blue light emanated up from corridor, and Hardin cautiously descended.

He paused at the foot of the stairs, trying to take in his strange surroundings through the haziness of his mind. The subterranean chamber was chill and damp, the walls of pale stone nearly undisturbed by the earthquake two decades before. Doors and windows that had been boarded up long ago were set in the walls all around, and an eerie blue light glowed in a street lamp in the center of the chamber, giving off an appearance not unlike moonlight in winter. Sydney had mentioned once that the ever-burning torches elsewhere in the city were enchanted long ago, in the age of Müllenkamp, and from the odd color, Hardin had no doubt that these lamps were the same.

Scuffling noises could be heard in the adjacent rooms; no doubt rats foraging in the larders. As of yet, Hardin had seen nothing else moving in the city aside from the occasional bat, and he had definitely come to think this curse that Sydney had cautioned them against was nothing but a superstition - perhaps a ruse to keep his followers from leaving as Hardin had.

His rage and shame resurfaced at the thought of it, and he had to lean against a wall for support as a spell of dizziness overwhelmed him. The ale was catching up with him, he supposed. The small cuts on his face tingled, almost burning, but when he touched his chin, this time his hand came away clean. Wind howled through the chamber through some unseen crevice, and Hardin froze as the sound seemed to resolve itself into a faint whispering.

_...blood..._

Hardin's head shot up, and he glanced around the room in suspicion, but the wind had died away. All was silent, and he shook his head. The drinking had made his mind weak, and Sydney's warnings now fed his uneasiness with this strange place. It had been the wind, nothing more.

Another gust touched his face, and the shallow wounds stung again. He lowered his head against the draft, shivering.

_...sweet liquor of the flesh... intoxicating... warm..._

His head rose again, and he warily took a step backwards towards the staircase, scouring the room as the wind died again. Nothing moved - the magical lamplight did not even so much as flicker. It was all his imagination, he decided, and anger flooded his alcohol-fogged mind. It was all Sydney and his mind games; even now, outside the cultist's grasp, Sydney's words still consumed him - even to the point of making him hear things that weren't there!

The room abruptly blurred before Hardin's eyes, and he fell to his knees as he was overcome by vertigo. Fearing that he might vomit, he squeezed his eyes shut against his surroundings as they spun recklessly around him.

The wind began to howl again, then a sudden silence fell, broken by the sound of footsteps and the crackling of a fire.

Hardin's eyes flew open, and he found himself kneeling upon the floor of a small, sparsely furnished chamber - back in the keep, from the looks of it. Something was strange about his sight though; everything seemed fuzzy around the edges of his vision, and despite his fogged mind, things he looked directly at seemed more clear and vivid than his eyes had ever rendered anything before. A small, efficient fire was burning in the hearth on the left side of the room, and straight in front of him were the room's only furnishings: a small table which held a candle, book, and open bottle of wine; a simple chair beside; and against the far wall, a bed slightly larger than the ones the brethren's sleeping quarters held. All were made of old, weathered wood, and a threadbare rug before the fire was the only spot in which the stone floor had a covering.

In the chair sat Sydney, staring down angrily into the metal goblet he held, swirling the drink in circles within it.

His teleportation! Forgetting his dizziness, Hardin started to stand, to open his mouth and express his outrage, but the door to his left opened, and two of the brethren entered. They didn't seem to think it odd that he was standing there in the other corner, though they must have seen him - the corner was not all that shadowy.

"He's nowhere within the secured area, Sydney," one man stated; Morrison was his name, Hardin recalled, and Jonas was the other. "He must have gone outside."

"Good riddance, I say," Jonas put in.

Sydney didn't look up at them as he shook his head. "Then look for him outside. Find a swordsman and take him with you; you may need him, if one of the spirits forgets who you are and in whose memory we come. He can't have gotten far. Bring him back immediately - and unharmed, mind you."

Jonas and Morrison exchanged curious glances before turning back to Sydney. "Why?" Morrison asked, disbelief registering in his voice.

"I say we let the spirits do as they will with him," Jonas muttered.

Their questioning was silenced when Sydney looked up from his drink, staring at them so viciously that Jonas actually took a step back. "And I say you find him and bring him back," Sydney said, his voice harsh. "Do you question my authority?"

"N-no, of course not," Morrison said quickly. "But it's just that..."

"He struck you, Sydney!" exclaimed Jonas. "That cannot be tolerated!"

Metal flashed in the light as Sydney's goblet abruptly crashed against the wall beside Morrison's head, causing the two men to flinch. The mage stood and approached his two followers, staring at them intensely, and they did not move. Time seemed to pass with painful slowness, and then finally Sydney spoke. "Find Padric, and have him accompany you on the search."

Morrison nodded simply. "As you wish, Sydney." Jonas agreed matter-of-factly, as if no tension had passed between them.

That accursed charisma of his! As they left, Hardin opened his mouth once again to speak his mind to Sydney, but before he could say a word, the mage went to stand before the fireplace, looking blankly down at the fallen goblet and the small pool of red wine that had drained from it. After a moment, one metal fist slammed into the wine-splattered wall, sending small chips of stone flying, then Sydney turned and stalked back across the room, plucking the bottle of wine from the table as he flung himself down on the bed angrily.

He still hadn't so much as acknowledged Hardin's presence, which seemed incredibly strange, but something in Sydney's eyes made Hardin hold back. Sitting there on the bed, one leg hanging over the edge and the other drawn up to his chest, tilting the bottle of wine back as he drank deeply, he looked more like a brooding adolescent than the savage manipulator Hardin imagined him to be. The hand holding the bottle dropped limply to his side over the edge of the bed, and the other came up to cover his face, though not quick enough to hide his expression - an expression Hardin could only describe as... broken.

As much as he didn't want to care, the look on Sydney's face reminded him of the nights he'd watched him sleeping; but this time it was wide awake, a conscious misery with no restful peace to be seen. Hardin felt his anger melt away in spite of himself, and he reluctantly opened his mouth to ask what was the matter. "Sydney..."

The simple calling of his name produced an effect Hardin hadn't expected, though, and Sydney's head shot up to look straight at the corner where he stood. The mage's eyes startled Hardin by being red-rimmed and shimmering with tears, and by seeming to look right through him without seeing him. "Hardin...?" Sydney whispered hoarsely.

Something strange was nagging at Hardin's mind, telling him he was missing something important. The way Sydney seemed to look right through him, the words of Jonas and Morrison... Before Hardin got the chance to ask Sydney what was going on, the mage's face took on a look of profound horror that Hardin had never imagined him to be capable of. "Gods, no..." he whispered. "Hardin... What have I done?"

Deeply disturbed by Sydney's unusual behavior, Hardin couldn't think of what on earth to do or say, and then the dizziness overcame him again. He dropped to one knee, a rushing sound in his ears...

Suddenly he was back where he had been, in the eerie blue light of the streets below Leá Monde, with the sound of the wind whistling in his ears. It almost seemed to him that the wind laughed at him as it died away. Bracing himself against a wall in case he was overcome again, Hardin got to his feet, but now he only felt the normal unsteadiness of being somewhat drunk, and he had no idea what had just happened. A disturbing thought was finally coming to light in his mind - Jonas and Morrison spoke of someone who had struck Sydney... they might have been talking about him. But he'd been right there, hadn't he?

No, that couldn't have happened. Sydney had cast no spell, and yet here he was, just where he'd been before. He must have lost consciousness, and had a dream...

But then, falling unconscious and dreaming on one knee? That was unlikely. In a daze, he sat down on the lowest steps of the staircase behind him, momentarily forgetting his decision to leave Leá Monde far behind him. As repulsive as Sydney's behavior had been, this was even more disturbing. Even if he had simply had been dreaming, or even hallucinating, everything he'd seen had been so very vivid - even his wildest dreams had never been so precisely detailed. Whatever had happened, it was beyond anything he'd ever experienced before, and he was at a loss to explain it.

He was even more confused when he realized that he was not alone. Across the chamber, a small figure stood, almost appearing to glow with an unearthly pallor beneath the strange light of the magical lamp. Hardin squinted at it as he tried to make it out - it couldn't really be a child, could it? The small figure swam in and out of focus before it finally resolved itself, and then Hardin's eyes widened in shock. It couldn't be... it just wasn't possible, but...

"John...?" a small voice called.

His eyes filled with tears at the sound. "Philip!" he heard himself shout, forgetting his confusion about the recent happenings. The familiar eyes were as bright and filled with youthful glee as they had been before he'd become ill, and the air was filled with playful laughter as the boy turned and ran, heading towards the one door that was not boarded up.

Hardin echoed the laughter himself as he gave chase, roaring with it even as he felt his eyes filling with tears. The dead walked in Leá Monde, Sydney had said. He could be with him again - he could speak to his little brother! Perhaps Philip even knew where their parents were! Entering the next room, he saw his brother beneath another of the magical lamps, one hand around the post as he swung around it in play. The boy paused as Hardin entered, and gave him a wide grin. "John!"

"Gods, Philip!" Hardin stood staring at him for a moment, still stunned with amazement. It seemed to him that the lamplight illuminated thin threads, drifting upwards from the boy's hands and feet, but that didn't matter - it was Philip! Perhaps that was how the dead appeared in Leá Monde, but as long as they appeared at all, Hardin didn't care. Opening his arms, he stepped forward to embrace his little brother.

_Yes, living blood - sustenence of the spirit, sweet and tasty!_

This time, the words were so clear that Hardin could not make himself believe it to be his imagination, and he looked around suspiciously. The wind began to howl again, and suddenly a gust struck Hardin with such force that he had to reach out for the lamp post to keep from being knocked off his feet. Lurching forward, he got a closer look at Philip's face...

Philip's face, he discovered, was not Philip's. A child's face, to be certain, but it was a mere wooden parody of a little girl's, warped and blighted by long years of decay in the darkness of the undercity. The laughter resolved into a terrifying giggle that sounded nothing like Philip's warm laughter, and one hand, clutching a gleaming knife, rose as if tugged at by the string that rose from the wrist.

Letting out a startled curse, Hardin stumbled backwards, fumbling for the sword at his waist - and quickly discovered he had forgotten to take it with him when he left the Keep. Unable to think of any other option, he tried to turn and run, but another gust of wind slammed into him, knocking him to his knees. _We shall drink to our eternal health!_

The child's giggle sounded again, and a sharp pain ripped through the back of Hardin's right leg. He couldn't keep from crying out as the wind rushed past again, and the wound began to burn and tingle in the same unusual way the smaller ones on his face had earlier.

_Savor the pain, the pain that ages this draught! A fine vintage!_

Hardin tried to stagger to his feet through the agony, and found his wounded leg unresponsive - the little fiend had hamstrung him! Pushing himself onto his back, he thought to batter his attacker with his bare hands, perhaps even wrest the knife away, but the child struck again, tearing deep into his stomach with the sharp blade. The wind rushed past again, deepening the pain, as his blood soaked through his shirt in only an instant. Not content with that, the child standing over him twisted the knife in his gut, and a scream emerged from Hardin's lips that he could not even recognize as his own voice. The knife lifted and struck again, this time at the hand that Hardin lifted instinctively as a feeble shield.

His surroundings began to grow dark, and even though Hardin knew it must mean he was dying, at least the pain seemed to be growing more distant as well. The child's knife found him in the side, in the shoulder, and in the neck, each time seeming less and less important, and then Hardin's world went black.


	6. Ancient Bonds are Breaking - Moving On and Changing Sides

The next thing Hardin was aware of was light. Not the vague, magical light he expected for some reason he couldn't recall, but a natural light. It was dim, certainly, but the glow he could see through his closed eyelids was familiar in its flickering, and he felt warmed by it. As sensation began to return to his body, he found himself to be covered with something heavy and soft, lying on a surface that was firm but yielding. Again, it seemed that this was not what he'd been expecting, but he couldn't think where else he'd have fallen asleep except in bed.

Drowsily, he turned onto his side and pulled the blanket with him, and was oddly startled that he felt no pain. He seemed to remember something terrible happening to him, but it must have been a nightmare, he decided with a yawn. At least it had not been the prison again - he was growing quite weary of those dreams.

He felt strangely disoriented though, and couldn't quite recall where he must have spent the night, and so he opened his eyes - only to have all the memories rushing back as he recognized the man sitting at his bedside. The celebration, the silk scarf, the strange vision and the child - that demonic child who had taken the form of his dear brother! Sydney looked up at the sudden pause in Hardin's breathing, his eyes as distant as ever. "Good morning, Hardin."

With a start, he realized that beneath the blankets, he wasn't wearing the clothes Sydney had purchased on his behalf, but only his undergarments and an ill-fitting shirt which was too loose in the shoulders. He had been drunk, yes, but not that drunk, he told himself firmly. Not even if he'd almost... Gods, Sydney hadn't done it again, had he?

"Don't be ridiculous," Sydney told him. "Your wounds were severe when they found you, and your shirt was drenched in your blood. We had to change you into something, once I'd healed you. Not that it was an easy task, considering how you allowed yourself to be so thoroughly tricked by the Quicksilver." He shook his head distastefully. "Cursed dolls possessed by the spirits of children long-dead, vanquished by the plague which ravaged the city a century ago... so named for their habit of projecting the form of those they see in their victims' minds. They usually do not trouble those who have been touched by the Dark in such a way, however, for we can see them for what they are with little effort." His shrewd gaze made Hardin uncomfortable, as he looked up to him again. "Hardin, you have been obsessing. It is time that you let him go."

Hardin's eyes narrowed dangerously. "That is none of your business, Losstarot. Especially not after what you did last night. Even if you did heal my wounds, I have no intention of speaking to you about Philip - nor anything else."

Leaning forward, Sydney transfixed him where he lay with a mere look. "A pity," he said in a low, dangerous voice. "For there is much we must talk about - and I do not speak of your brother."

Unable to break away from that cold stare, Hardin was as helpless as he'd been the night before when Sydney had tried to seduce him. This time, however, he felt nothing but outrage. "You may be able to compel me, to put thoughts in my head and force my body to your whims, but do not fool yourself into thinking I am yours. I am my own, Losstarot - my soul belongs to none but myself, as much as you may twist it!"

Hardin had expected Sydney to become angry, but to his surprise, the mage bowed his head slightly, breaking off the eye contact. Something in the way his shoulders sagged gave Hardin the impression of something he wouldn't have expected at all from Sydney: contrition.

"I suppose that would be as good a place as any to start, would it not?" the mage said softly. "Hardin, I know my behavior last night was... reprehensible. I would explain myself by admitting I'd had a few glasses of wine, that I was not entirely sober, but that does not excuse what I did. I knew that you also had had a bit too much, and I took advantage of that..." His metal hands folded in his lap, Sydney stared down at them dismally. "Hardin, I offer you my sincerest apologies. I had no right to do such a thing."

Caught up as he was in his outrage, even these soft words were not enough to assuage Hardin's anger, though they caused him to smile with bitter satisfaction. "Then we agree that I had every right to strike you."

Sydney's eyes shot up to look at him in surprise, as one hand rose absently to finger his chin, where Hardin's fist had struck. Suddenly a smile crossed his lips, and Sydney began to laugh. "Do you find this amusing?" Hardin demanded.

Sydney shook his head slightly, still chuckling to himself. "Only you, John Hardin. Only you would have the nerve to strike me."

"Hmmph." For some odd reason, Sydney's words pleased him, and he couldn't suppress a chuckle either. "I suppose I can forgive you for this one episode, but.... gods!" The gravity of what had transpired suddenly returned to Hardin, and his smile vanished. "Thanks to you and your blasted compulsion, I could have died out there, Sydney! If you ever so much as look at me with the merest idea of seduction in your head again-"

Sydney's smile vanished at the accusation. "I may have taken advantage of your addled mind, but not to the degree you seem to think,"he interrupted, his face suddenly cold. "I swear to you by the gods - and seeing as I believe, unlike you, it is not an oath I will take lightly - I swear that I did not compel you! I tempted and teased, yes, but your reaction was wholly your own."

"You expect me to believe that?" Hardin shot back. "I nearly kissed you - and as absurd as it is, for a moment I even believed that I wanted to! If not your compulsion, what other explanation is there?"

"The most obvious," Sydney replied coolly. "Deep down, so buried beneath excuses and denial that even you do not recognize it... you are attracted to me, Hardin. Many emotions go unnoticed within a man's heart."

"Ridiculous!"

"When inhibitions are lowered, due to an excess of drink, perhaps," Sydney continued, ignoring Hardin's outburst, "sometimes they make themselves known. But it is not as if these feelings of yours have never surfaced before, is it? The night before our arrival, when you held me; during the dance last night..."

"Due to your manipulation," Hardin said firmly.

Sydney shook his head. "If you will not believe my words," he said softly, "then find the answer within yourself. Look at me, Hardin. Look at me, and search your heart for the truth instead of running from it, as you have been."

Hardin hesitated. If it would put this business to rest once and for all, then... "And how am I to know you won't try another of your tricks?"

"I swear that I will do nothing." Settling himself back in the chair, Sydney closed his eyes. "If it will put your mind at ease, I will not so much as look at you."

"As if I can trust you to keep your word," Hardin muttered. He knew firsthand how people could lie without the blink of an eye to betray them, no matter what they swore by. Sydney frowned slightly, but said nothing, and Hardin took a deep breath. If Sydney spoke truly, then everything would be fine. If he lied... then Hardin would know. Another thing about people's lies - they always revealed themselves eventually.

It was absurd, of course, Hardin thought as he let his eyes wander over Sydney's face. He didn't even know what he was looking for, much less how to find it. Search your heart, Sydney had said, and Hardin tried to relax as he turned his thoughts inward.

Sydney's closed eyes gave him a look of distant serenity, and Hardin was reminded again of the weeping angel statue he had likened the mage to as he lay sleeping. But this time, the flickering firelight gave a warm glow to his cheek, and Hardin's eyes followed the perfect curve down to Sydney's small mouth. Pale and delicate as they were, his lips gave him a deceptively gentle look, though Hardin knew very well just how dangerous he was. His eyes traced the lines and contours of Sydney's cheek down to the stubborn chin, the slight arrogance to be found in the way the mage held his head - that matter-of-fact arrogance that made him so irritating and yet so fascinating. His pale hair obscured the side of his face, and Hardin found himself wanting to brush it aside as his eyes traversed the graceful line of Sydney's jaw. He caught himself about to lift a hand, to reach out to do just that, and started when he realized just how much he wanted to do so.

He could vividly remember the feel of Sydney's hair against his cheek, the night he'd held him, and other recollections surfaced as well. The slight weight of the mage's body, the way his arms had encompassed Sydney's smaller frame so completely, the soft warmth of his skin... Suddenly it was nearly a tangible struggle for Hardin not to reach out to push the mage's hair away from his face; the mere idea that his fingers might brush against that skin nearly overwhelmed him with longing. He should not have thought of that, he realized, for it led to thoughts of other things - running his hand along Sydney's cheek, Sydney's head turning ever so slightly to take a wandering finger between his lips...

The mental image was so vivid that Hardin caught his breath, though he couldn't determine whether it was from the picture's sensuality or the shock of discovering that he did in fact want it terribly. "Lies!" Hardin exclaimed, shaken by the realization. "You must have planted these thoughts in my mind yourself! I've no doubt you could and would do such a thing."

Sydney's eyes fluttered open again, and he gave a weary sigh. "Honestly, Hardin... if I was going to do such a thing, why would I have not simply forced your will to suit my purposes already? And we would not be having this conversation if I had."

In frustration, Hardin gave the only answer he could think of. "I don't know!"

"Exactly," Sydney said gently. "There is no reason for me to do so."

Hardin let his head drop, taking it between his hands in dismay. Gods... it wasn't just his imagination. He really _did_ want Sydney.

"You fight against it so hard," he heard Sydney saying, almost sympathetically. "As if it was something to be feared or despised... Is it because, perhaps, you are more religious than you think? Or is it just that it was the last thing about your former life that you believed was still true? Yes... Everything you once had, everything you once could hold fast to in your life has turned to dust, has it not? Your family, your allegiances, your reputation... everything except yourself. And if even you have changed-"

"Sydney..." His head still in his hands, Hardin took some comfort in the fact that Sydney couldn't not see the tears his words brought to his eyes. "Please... no more. I've admitted it already - what more do you want from me?"

"Acceptance," came Sydney's gentle reply. "Not for my sake, but for your own. A man cannot be anything but what he is, not without a great deal of suffering - a fire to reforge him. The easiest path to peace lies in simply accepting these feelings, and moving ahead with your life." There was a pause, and from the sound of Sydney shifting in his seat, Hardin got the impression Sydney had started to reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder as he had in the past, then thought better of it and refrained, for which Hardin was grateful. "Granted, it will take some time. That was my transgression last night - I thought to bring you to acceptance before you were ready. But..." There was a soft sigh. "You do not wish to speak of this anymore. I understand, and I promise you this: I will not bring the matter up again, through words or actions. After what came of it last night... I owe you as much."

Of all the things Hardin would have expected of Sydney, this was not among them. "...Thank you," he managed to say.

"Then this discussion is finished." Sydney hesitated. "Besides, there is another more urgent matter we must discuss, though I fear it will sit no better with you."

Sydney's serious tone made Hardin uneasy, though the uneasiness at least took his mind off his confused emotions, and he could be somewhat grateful for that. He looked up again to see that Sydney's face had gone distant and resolute again.

"By this time, you already know much of the powers possessed by myself and the brethren," Sydney began, folding his hands in his lap. "Though some of the things we do are taught, spells and incantations, each man is born with certain innate talents. We may say that these gifts are bestowed upon us by the Dark, but that is not entirely the case; the Dark simply allows a man to access these gifts, and amplifies them. It is a force of nature, though even the Dark itself denies its own existence - you could say that it is more an absence of existence. When touched by its emptiness, certain barriers within a man's mind are worn away, releasing the abilities he was given from birth. When your friend Padric was touched, he found that he was able to read hearts. Duncan could reform a man's perceptions for a few moments at a time. Kermiak has the ability to levitate small objects. As unnatural as these things may sound, they are not alien to a normal man in the least."

Sydney paused then, his expression still impassive, and Hardin watched him curiously, wondering why Sydney was lecturing him on the brethren's mysteries at such a time.

"The Dark runs strong here within Leá Monde," Sydney said finally, "and last night, it found you. You have been baptized into the Dark just as the brethren and I, Hardin."

Chills ran down Hardin's spine, and he stared at Sydney for a moment before reacting. Soon enough, he found that he didn't know how to react. He certainly didn't feel any different than he had before, or as if he were lacking something. On the contrary, he felt much more whole and healthy than he had for as long as he could remember; no doubt it was the magic that had healed him, leaving no trace of his injuries. "Are you certain?" he asked cautiously.

Sydney nodded, very slowly. "Look around you."

Hardin did so, and his eyes widened. Beside Sydney's chair was a small round table, holding a book, a candle, and a metal goblet, slightly dented as if by some great impact. His eyes went to the fireplace across the room, before which was a thin rug. He would have leapt up to investigate the wall beside it if not for his state of undress, but even from his place in the bed he could see the faint dark residue where the wine had not been completely washed away, and the shallow marks in the stone where Sydney's fist had struck.

"Slowly, Hardin!"

Sydney's harsh words had a similar effect to having a bucket of cold water thrown on him, and Hardin snapped upright in alarm, feeling strangely dizzy and numb all of a sudden. It only lasted a moment before it passed, and then he discovered he couldn't make out the marks upon the wall any longer. "What madness is this?"

"It appears as though you have a very rare and useful gift," Sydney replied. "You are able to view distant people or places - or scrye, as we often refer to the sight of the spirit rather than the sight of the eyes - without your body being present. Just a moment ago, you wanted to examine the wall, and so you unconsciously reached out with an extension of your spirit to approach it. Last night, your mind must have been preoccupied with what I had done, to send that extension of yourself to this very room in search of me."

"Gods," Hardin breathed, astonished. "Then it wasn't a dream, or a hallucination. I really saw..." The implications of this - that he was a sorcerer just as the brethren were, and not by his choosing - suddenly struck him, and he swallowed hard against the sudden tightness in his throat. "How did this come to pass, Sydney?"

The mage gave him a slightly reproving look. "I told you long ago to heed my warnings, no matter the situation, lest it bring trouble down upon your own head. This is such an instance - the reason I forbade you to venture beyond the areas held by Müllenkamp was to guard against this. Within Leá Monde, the Dark is far stronger than usual, and with none living to sustain it here for the last twenty years, it will feed upon whatever it finds. And the Dark is drawn to the scent of blood. Mind you, it is not evil any more than the cat that feeds upon the mouse."

Drawn to blood... Hardin remembered the voices laughing in the sound of the wind, urging the demon child on as it tortured him, and could not suppress a shiver.

"I suppose you were not solely to blame," Sydney added. "It was the wounds on your face that first drew their interest, though it would have come upon you eventually whether you were injured or not. That is, if the many inhabitants of Leá Monde had not killed you first. There dwell far stronger creatures than the Quicksilver in the undercity, and when my followers could not find you within the keep, I..." He hesitated, then rose abruptly to go and kneel before the fireplace, prodding at the burning logs with a poker. "When they could not find you," he continued after a moment, "I thought you might already have perished. And then, when you called my name across the planes, I was certain it was your shade who had spoken."

Hardin could vividly recall the look on Sydney's face after Jonas and Morrison had gone, the expression of absolute horror that had overtaken him when Hardin had addressed him. Incredible - Sydney actually would have been upset if he had died. In light of Sydney's first revelation, though, that realization gave him little pleasure, but instead disturbed him.

"Let us not dwell on that sort of thought," Sydney told him, still occupying himself with the fire, though Hardin could see perfectly well that it needed no tending at the moment. "In the past few minutes, you have learned of two new aspects of yourself, but the one we speak of now is more important by far. You are but an infant in this power, and if you stay with us, I will guide you. I would not be more to you than a teacher - that I promise."

"And if I choose to leave you, as I decided last night?" A pointless question, and Hardin knew it. After what had happened the night before, he had no intention of trying to leave the city alone again, even if he hadn't decided to accept Sydney's apology. Besides, this strange new power he possessed... could he master it on his own?

"If you choose to leave, perhaps you will live a normal life, never manifesting this power again," Sydney replied, turning to face him again. "Perhaps. But on the other hand, perhaps some emotion will catch you off guard, or your curiosity will cause your gift to manifest without your will as it did a moment ago. If that happens, and you have not yet learned how to remain partially in your normal state of consciousness, it could cause you a great deal of difficulty. And if the wrong person is to witness such an episode, you could end up burned at the stake by the cardinal's ignorant followers."

"For this?" The thought apalled Hardin. "For an ability I never asked for, that I stumbled upon by accident?"

"As I said, they are ignorant. You cannot fault them for it, though; you were as ignorant as they only weeks ago, were you not?" Not waiting for an answer, he gestured towards the end of the bed. "There is a chest containing clothes you can wear until yours are cleaned and mended. I will leave you now so that you may dress. Once you have eaten, seek me out, and I will begin teaching you what you should know. Please do try to refrain from scrying until then - it is not dangerous, exactly, but it might cause you some... confusion."

Of course Sydney would know that he'd already made up his mind. "I suppose I must thank you yet again," Hardin said as Sydney went to the door. "Ironic... but you did apologize, and I suppose that's as much as you can do."

Sydney paused, then turned back to him for a moment. "One last thing you should know, Hardin," told him. "I did use my compulsion last night, but not upon you. Many among the brethren would have gladly watched you die at the hands of the Quicksilver, and perhaps joined in, after seeing you strike me."

So that was why Jonas and Morrison had changed their minds so abruptly. Still... "It seems ruthless, that you should use such a power to lie to so many people."

"It was for your safety," Sydney said firmly. "Would you rather have had a large number of the brethren shun and perhaps even attempt to harm you? Would you rather have had them muddy their souls with anger when they looked upon you?"

Hardin frowned, frustrated. It still didn't seem right to him, to force lies upon the innocent, even if it caused more good in the long run than harm.

"Not all of the followers witnessed our... exchange," Sydney continued. "And though Padric did, he bore no anger towards you; as all heartseers, he possesses a great deal of insight, and he understood your actions. After he had brought you back with Jonas and Morrison, and you were safely healed, the two of us formulated an acceptable alternative for them to believe - that you and he had engaged in a drunken quarrel over some trivial matter, and that was why you had left. After we had agreed upon the story, I planted it in the minds of those who had witnessed the actual events. Padric insisted that I compel him to believe the lie as well, lest he accidentally expose the truth."

Hardin was impressed - placing the blame on one's own self was one thing, but he couldn't imagine willingly consenting to having his memories malformed in such a way. "I'll be certain to thank him. And apologize for our argument," he added.

Sydney smirked slightly. "You catch on quickly, Hardin. I hope you will be as quick when it comes to mastering the Dark."

The clothes in the chest fit much better than the shirt he was wearing, Hardin discovered after Sydney had gone - probably Aryn's again. While putting on the fresh shirt, he glanced down and noted with surprise that there was not so much as a scar left of the wound the Quicksilver had given him. His wounded leg seemed to function perfectly normally as well; no trace remained of his injuries, aside from memories of the pain, and even those had faded fast with no physical remnant. In fact, he felt not even the slightest ill effects from the night's drinking. If the Dark could do such things, perhaps it was not so bad that he'd been exposed to it, he thought ruefully.

But to be a sorcerer... Hardin found that he had to sit down again for a moment when the thought actually sank in. He may have been with the brethren for weeks already, and accepted those powers among their number, but superstition had been bred into him for over two decades. He didn't care so much what others might have done, but when it had manifested in his own life...

It was not unlike the other matter. Hardin had thought no less of Sydney for his male consorts, for that had no effect on his own person. He'd long ago ceased to care what St. Iocus' followers said about such things, for he didn't believe in their blessed saint anyway, and Sydney and his choice of lovers hurt no one. But he'd never had cause to consider it as an issue in his life until now, and he found that it frightened him. Certainly he could put those feelings behind him, and simply be an ordinary man, with ordinary desires...

An ordinary man who could magically see what was happening far away, even through walls? Hardin shook his head with a grim smile. It was better to think about that, he decided - far less disturbing.

There was an element of obvious bias to his fear of the Dark besides, and where there was bias, it could be dissuaded with logic. He had not worshipped any demons, had he? He'd never tried to use such a power before, for personal gain or otherwise, and he had no intention of using it to harm anyone, even if he could somehow. The reports of Iocus' followers were certainly false, if he'd done none of these things and was still capable of using the power the Dark had given him.

That argument made him feel a great deal better, at least for the time being, and he repeated it to himself a few more times, trying to make certain that he truly believed it, before he stood to go to breakfast.

On the way to the dining hall, Hardin found Padric waiting for him, leaning against a wall with his arms crossed. The tall man looked up at the sound of his footsteps. "Well met, Hardin. Sydney passed by a short time ago, so I knew you must have awakened. I... wanted to talk to you, about last night."

Hardin nodded. "About that, Padric... I owe you much." More than the man even knew, he thought to himself.

Padric shook his head. "If we had not argued, you never would have thought to leave, and found yourself in such a terrible situation."

It was just like Padric, to take the blame for something he hadn't even done. "No apologies are necessary," Hardin assured the man. "Surely you are not the only one who argued - nor are you the one who foolishly left the safety of the Keep, despite Sydney's warnings. Besides, I'm told that you were one of those who brought me back alive."

The tension left Padric's face at Hardin's words, and he smiled. "It was the least I could do. Why, I do not even remember what we quarreled over, but certainly it could not have been enough to be worth your life."

"I can't recall what it was about myself," Hardin chuckled. Of course, that was because their argument had never taken place at all, he thought with vague amusement, careful to cloak his thoughts as Padric had taught him weeks before. "It's just as well - if neither of us can recall what happened, it will be that much easier to forget it happened at all. No lasting damage has come to either of us, so let us leave it in the past."

"Yes, let's," Padric agreed, accepting Hardin's offered hand. "You're a gracious man, Hardin."

_Not nearly as gracious as you,_ Hardin thought as they shook.


	7. Dreaming of a New Day - Cast Aside the Other Way

Much of that day, as well as the next several, was spent under Sydney's watchful eye as he diligently taught Hardin about the strange new talent he'd received. Though Hardin was still skeptical as to the gods Sydney believed in, after a few more manifestations of his power, he certainly could not deny that the Dark existed, at the least. He could visualize a place in his mind and then view it as though he stood there in person, and he could find any of the brethren within the city simply by focusing his thoughts upon them and willing his spirit to look. Soon, under Sydney's instruction, he was able to view distant locations while remaining perfectly conscious of his physical body, able to respond to the questions Sydney asked of him without finding himself jolted back to normal perception.

If that were not reason enough to believe, Hardin was beginning to feel the force within him. At first it was faintly uncomfortable, a kind of phantom ache in his soul, but with practice it grew more familiar. Sydney told him that the powers the Dark had unleashed in him were strong, and even tested Hardin for signs of any other latent gifts, but found nothing else. He was exceptionally receptive to the mental rapport used in the mindspeak, Sydney discovered, but that was more a matter of his natural adaptability than anything else. Hardin was grateful for that, for that particular talent still disturbed him, as he was by nature a self-contained person.

Sydney was a stern teacher, pushing Hardin further and faster than he was entirely comfortable with. If he could not report back the precise details Sydney asked him about, he simply had to do it again, and if he again failed, Sydney would lecture him on the principles of the Dark. Not that Sydney was harsh towards him; the mage never raised his voice, and he always wore that shrewd, unfazable expression of his. It was not a lack of ability that prevented Hardin from achieving the tests Sydney set out before him, so he claimed - he was a remarkable judge of a person's limitations, and he knew Hardin could do the things he asked of him. The only reason he did not succeed every time was because he was still wary of the Dark, and his mind unconsciously reined itself in too tight in fear. But the Dark was not to be feared, as it was only a natural force - though too much could be very dangerous.

Yet he pushed Hardin along quickly, asking him to scrye further and further each time, even to the outskirts of Leá Monde. When Hardin finally became frustrated enough to ask why he was being so persistent, Sydney calmly explained that because Hardin was not of the brethren, and might want to leave their number at some time, it would be best if he gained as much control as possible, as swiftly as possible. Sydney would not leave a half-trained seer to his own resources in a world that would not understand. And besides, he said, he was curious to see just what Hardin could do. The Dark could do many things aside from awakening a man's spiritual gifts, including control of the elements and summoning - but these were spells as opposed to an inborn talent, requiring rituals and incantations rather than a strong will. It was a pity, he stated, that Hardin was not one of their order, or else he'd have begun instructing him in them right away, since his gift was so strong.

Regardless of his praise and reassurance, Sydney remained oddly detached, and despite the irritation that the mage's earlier behavior towards him had caused, Hardin found himself missing the frank conversations they'd shared in the past, the sharp, merciless wit and sympathetic soul Sydney had shown him. Sydney had promised that he would do nothing that might be taken as an unwelcome advance, and he apparently meant to keep that promise to the most severe measure.

Fortunately, he kept Hardin busy enough that there was no time to dwell on it - at least not during the times they spent together in lessons, nor during the rest of the day, when Hardin assisted the brethren with their labors. Most often, he and Padric were assigned to leave Leá Monde for a short time to hunt game for the brethren's meals, and he enjoyed the task immensely. After the past several weeks, his strength was nearly what it had been before the prison, and it felt good to have his muscles moving again.

Padric was a fine companion for the hunt, due to his personable but quiet demeanor, and apparently he had at one time been a guard himself, much like Hardin. Only within a town militia, he said, but he was due to be recommended to the king's men when he had chanced to hear Sydney speak. Padric had been one of several assigned to break up Müllenkamp's gathering if it were to become a mob situation, but after hearing Sydney's prophecies and teachings, he had left home and all he had to follow the man. He admitted that to an unbeliever it must sound foolish, but as difficult a life as it could be with Müllenkamp, he had no regrets. The gods had granted him much, not the least of which was the ability to read a man's heart. Before, he'd been self-absorbed, never giving much thought to his fellow man, but the Dark had opened his eyes.

In months past, Hardin would have simply been amused by such a childish expression of faith, but he had come to know Padric as a very cautious individual, not given to flights of fancy. If even he believed in the gods so strongly, then he had good reason to. Padric didn't offer anything that could be taken as substantial proof when Hardin asked, but asked what else he had seen during his time with Müllenkamp that could not be seen or explained through physical means. As his lessons with Sydney in the use of the talent the Dark had granted him were fresh in his mind, he simply nodded and did not ask more.

A few times, also, Hardin spoke with Kirrienne, wondering if there was anything to his idea that she might have been interested in him. Their conversations never went much beyond simple small talk, though at times she seemed to be hinting that she indeed was interested in something more. Since she said nothing certain, however, Hardin decided it was best not to pursue anything. She was the type of woman he would have been interested in back in the days when he had been in the PeaceGuard, for she was well-mannered and proper without being dull, and very sweet; but even if she had taken a liking to him, he doubted he could possibly give her any sort of happiness, as confused as he was about everything at the time - including where his true feelings lay.

Between hunting with Padric and the time spent in training with Sydney, it was only while Hardin lay dozing in his bed at night that the other matter he and Sydney had discussed forced its way into his consciousness. Much like the Dark, at first he found it distressing, and tried to banish the thoughts from his mind. The constant struggle grew tiresome, though, and finally he gave in and let himself examine those unlikely feelings he'd experienced. They had been genuine, he was certain of that, and when he let his mind wander where it would, he discovered that they had not gone away despite Sydney's recent emotional distance. It was not simply physical, either; upon closer examination, he had to admit that if a woman had possessed Sydney's quick wit and mystifying charm, he'd have found her irresistable.

So it seemed as though he had found himself attracted to a man, Hardin confessed to himself. Did it really make so big of a difference? As much as he tried to tell himself that it didn't, his soul shrank from the idea. The inner conflict often left him lying awake long into the night, wanting to laugh or cry - anything to dispel his confusion - until he would finally fall into an exhausted and uneasy sleep.

The weather grew warmer as the weeks dragged on, and finally Sydney told his followers it was time to move on again. They would be heading to the east, to a small village that sympathized with their cause. Duncan informed Hardin that there were a few such villages scattered around, which they spent much of the year at. Leá Monde was safer by far, but crops could not grow on the stony cliffs or even in the soil nearby, soaked with the ocean's salt water. If Müllenkamp was to eat, they had to acquire food elsewhere, and unless they were to work, there was not enough coin to keep everyone fed. It had not been a problem thus far, even if the templars' overzealousness seemed to be increasing with each passing year, making the brethren's travel more hazardous.

As for Hardin, Sydney spoke to him privately after informing his followers of his intentions, telling him that he'd learned all he needed to know. His control over his power was more than adequate to keep it in check, and so if he wished to part ways when they left the city, it would be safe to do so.

He excused himself without asking for an answer, and it was just as well, for Hardin had no idea what he intended to do. On the one hand, he still had no place else to go, and his life was good with the brethren, especially since Sydney had ceased to provoke him. The implications of his newfound ability also worried him, though he didn't like to admit it. If Sydney's teachings about the Dark were true, then it might mean that the other things he spoke of were true as well, even his faith in the gods... If Hardin were to leave, he knew not where else he might find the answers to his questions.

...And on the other hand, Sydney's presence in itself was enough to trouble him. It seemed illogical that this single reason should be enough to make his decision difficult, but he could not deny it. In a way, he thought it might have been better if Sydney had not changed his ways; as foolish as it was, Sydney's recent aloof manner bothered Hardin as much as his former behavior, though for different reasons. He now _wanted_ Sydney to speak to him, but he dared not approach the mage himself. If he were to speak to Sydney, he was afraid of what he might find himself thinking again. It would be much easier to let the distance between them remain.

That night, he lay awake for many hours, staring at the ceiling of the sleeping quarters in the keep and wondering what he should do. They would leave at midday tomorrow, and that didn't leave much time. Of course, he realized, he could leave at any time; it didn't have to be tomorrow. Perhaps it would be best to stay with them for the time being, for he could always change his mind and part ways with them later on. If he left them before he was certain and later changed his mind, it might be impossible to find them again.

Yes, that was the logical thing to do - wait until he was certain. Finally satisfied, Hardin drifted off to sleep, and into a dream.

He stood on the seaside cliffs outside Leá Monde, feeling the salt breeze and warm sunshine upon his face. Looking out across the land, he felt a thrill at how the hills and mountains and forests were laid out as far as the eye could see. The world was his to wander, now that he was free - all throughout Valendia, and even to the countries beyond. And when he looked at the ocean, with its crashing waves that stretched on forever to meet the sky, it was like staring into eternity.

Sydney knelt beside him, etching one of his magic circles into the ground with his claws - a normal part of this exercise through which he tested Hardin's abilities. "Focus upon me, Hardin," he instructed him. "Concentrate upon my rhythm, and follow me with your mind." With that, he stepped into the circle and vanished with a murmured spell.

Hardin had done this exercise many times now, and so he did as Sydney suggested. Unusual, though - this time he could not find Sydney's signature energy patterns no matter which way he directed his concentration. In the early days, it had been easier for him when he closed his eyes, and he did so again now, even knowing that Sydney would not be pleased with this step backwards. But strangely, he still could not feel Sydney anywhere.

He opened his eyes again, frowning with displeasure despite the calming scene around him. It had been five or six days since Sydney had managed to elude him thus, and since then, Hardin's power had grown enough that he could easily find him anywhere within Leá Monde, even within the deepest mine shaft or dungeon beneath the city. It was beyond him why he could not sense Sydney this time.

A faint presence flickered at the edge of his consciousness, and he grasped at it, quite pleased with himself. Sydney must have been masking himself somehow, he decided, and focused in on that presence. He was viewing Forcas Rise in the town centre, he discovered - but Sydney was nowhere in sight.

That was unusual; he must have misjudged where that presence had been, Hardin decided. Closing his eyes again, he concentrated once more, and opened them again to look upon the halls of the keep. Once again, Sydney was not present.

In fact, no one was present at all, and Hardin frowned. The sun was almost directly overhead, and at this time of day, the halls should have been filled with men and women going to or from their midday meal. Instead, the keep was silent and deserted. He even sent his astral self walking down the corridors to peer into the dining hall, but found it empty. In the room that served as the kitchen, the firepits were cold and dusty, just as they had been on the day he'd arrived and Padric had shown him around.

Beginning to feel uneasy, Hardin closed his eyes again, and when he opened them, he found himself in the blue light of the undercity. That was a place he had no desire to revisit, and since Sydney once again was nowhere to be seen, he gave up and willed himself to return to normal consciousness.

Nothing happened.

Suddenly Hardin was glad that Sydney was not there, as wary as he was. He'd reliably been able to remove himself from the trances for the last ten days at least, and it would have been highly embarrassing to admit that he was having trouble with such an elementary aspect of the power. Again he summoned his will to end the scrying, and again, there was no response.

Even though he was not technically present, Hardin fancied he could feel a faint wind blowing, whispering words of violence, and it was beginning to spook him. If he couldn't return to normal consciousness, he at least did not want to stay there, and he focused his thoughts upon the town centre again. Instead, he abruptly found himself looking upon the empty interior of Leá Monde's cathedral.

Anything was an improvement over the undercity, he decided, and paused to think. It was odd that he could not seem to view the places he meant to scrye upon, and odder still that he could not bring himself back to normal consciousness. Sydney would be able to help him, though, and so all he had to do was find Sydney. So far the mage had managed to elude him, but similar things had happened in the past. Sydney had told Hardin that all he needed to do if he encountered trouble was open his mind for the rapport, and now Hardin reluctantly did so.

Almost immediately, he heard a strange, muffled sound, as though someone were having trouble breathing. "...there no other way?" someone was asking in a voice that sounded like Sydney's, but somehow contorted and strange. "Please..." The voice broke off raggedly, and it was then that Hardin identified the sound as quiet sobbing. Sydney... crying?

"I don't want to see this," the broken voice murmured. "Please, no..."

The feeling of dread Hardin had felt grew stronger. Something was terribly wrong, and it wasn't confined to just his scrying. Though he loathed it, he called out in the mindspeak. _Sydney?_

There was a pause. _Hardin?_

_What is it, Sydney? What's happened? I... I can't seem to-_

_Hardin!_ Sydney's voice was desperate, almost maddened. _I need... please... you can stop this. I know you can! Please, Hardin - I can't bear it!_

Without so much as a thought of the distance between them, or the troubles Hardin had been having with his abilities, he focused in on Sydney's rhythm and willed himself to view him, wherever he was and whatever ailed him. Instead, he found himself looking upon one of the chambers far below the city's streets - deep within the dungeon they had called the Iron Maiden. Again, Sydney was not present, though Hardin could still hear the faint sound of his crying in his mind. _Sydney! Where are you?_

He got no answer, and his feeling of dread began to change to terror. Whatever was happening, if Sydney was affected so much by it, Hardin knew he was helpless as well. He remained even more helpless if he was forced to remain trapped within his mind's roving eye, and so he closed his eyes, making one last desperate attempt to return to normal consciousness. He was relieved when this time he felt the strange rushing sensation that signalled he'd made it.

Strangely, there was no feel of warm sunshine, nor the smell of the ocean, and he opened his eyes to find himself in near darkness. At first he couldn't place where he was, but then his anxiety turned to sheer horror as he recognized his surroundings. The only light came from the weakly flickering flame of a torch on the other side of the iron bars set in the far wall, and all through the cold stone chamber rose the bitter cries and curses of the other prisoners, some driven mad by years of solitude.

"Gods, no!" Hardin tried to fight back his rising panic as well as he could; he couldn't be there again, not in truth! Only moments ago he'd been at Leá Monde! Closing his eyes again, he firmly willed himself to return to where his body truly stood, on the cliffs by the sea, but nothing happened. In desperation, he tried over and over again, and through it all, Sydney's quiet crying continued...

Hardin's eyes flew open, and his wide eyes took in the sight of the carven stone ceiling above his bed, staring blankly for a moment before he comprehended it. Just a dream, thank whatever gods might exist, he thought with a sigh of gratitude.

It wasn't long, however, before he realized that although the dream was fading fast, he was still anxious to make certain that Sydney was still there after all. Not being able to find the mage, despite his crying out for help, had shaken Hardin badly. It was childish, and he knew it, but he took a deep breath and concentrated on Sydney's room, and was relieved when the chamber was laid out before him just as he'd intended.

He was not expecting to see what he saw, however. Sydney was alone for once, and rather than sleeping, he paced the floor beside the hearth restlessly, the quilt from the bed gathered around his thin frame with one hand. The other clutched his head as if in anguish, and when Hardin dared to look closer, he saw that the mage's lips moved in silent, urgent speech. There were small bleeding cuts around his left eye and temple, and when his right hand lowered to furiously brush away a tear, Hardin saw similar marks, left by his own blade-like fingers.

This disturbed Hardin greatly, for he knew from experience that Sydney had enough control over his artificial hands that they could be as gentle as he wished them to be. For him to inadvertantly injure himself, his concentration must have been shattered beyond belief. Something had upset him badly, and it occurred to Hardin that perhaps the part of the dream where Sydney had cried out for help had not been a dream at all - perhaps he truly had dropped into a rapport with Sydney by accident.

Dropping out of the viewing - and rather annoyed with himself for a split second's panic over whether he would be able to do so or not - Hardin got out of bed, changing out of his nightclothes and into something more presentable as quietly as he could in the dark. In the next bed over, Padric stirred, but did not wake as Hardin slipped out of the chamber and into the hallway, making his way through the dark towards Sydney's room. Sydney was obviously upset, but after a few weeks of cool detachment, Hardin wasn't sure if Sydney would really have opened himself up enough to ask for assistance, or if what Hardin had seen when scrying had only been a coincidence, and he would be intruding by acting upon his dream. Either way, he would get his answer when he knocked at the door, and he did so.

There was a moment's hesitation before he heard footsteps behind the door, then a sliver of light spilled out into the dark hallway as the door opened. Sydney's face was calm and composed despite the tiny wounds as he saw who his visitor was, then he stepped away from the door. "You're late, Hardin," he said quietly.

Taking it as an invitation, Hardin pushed the door further open and entered. "Late?"

"Yes, late." His eyes downcast, Sydney resumed his pacing, clutching the quilt around himself tightly. After a moment he halted, his face suddenly tight with pain. "I was hoping that you might come and awaken me as you had said you wanted to do, weeks ago."

"Sydney..." After the past weeks, seeing him like this was a shock, and Hardin couldn't think of what to say. "I... I'm sorry, I was dreaming..."

"So was I, when I heard you calling me," Sydney muttered. "So was I..."

A tear began to slide down his cheek, and he angrily began to reach up to wipe it away. Hardin was as surprised as Sydney was when the mage's wrist was arrested by Hardin's strong grip. "You've already cut yourself," Hardin pointed out gently.

Tear-filled as they were, Sydney's eyes narrowed, burning with a sudden rage. "Do not touch me," he hissed, yanking his hand free.

Hardin took a step back, startled by Sydney's reaction. "Sydney, I'm sorry, but-"

"I bear no grudge against you for it," Sydney said flatly, resuming his pacing. His breath was shallow and quick, and Hardin wondered if he was ill. "I should have known better than to allow the rapport in the first place."

Not knowing what to say, Hardin stood silently and watched Sydney pace back and forth for a time before he attempted to speak again. "Do you wish to talk about it?"

"No."

It looked as though the curt reply was the only answer Sydney intended to give, and Hardin was at a loss. "Then I suppose you would prefer to be left alone."

"No. Ah, yes," Sydney corrected himself quickly.

Hardin was even more disturbed - Sydney had never misspoken in all the time since Hardin had met him. Even so, he nodded obediently and turned to leave. His hand was on the door's latch when Sydney's voice rose behind him in command. "No!"

Turning back to the mage in surprise, Hardin saw a frightening look in his eyes - a frenzied look of desperation that bordered on madness. Apparently realizing how he must appear, Sydney took a deep breath. "Hardin, please stay with me."

So that was what was wrong, Hardin noted as Sydney returned to pacing the floor - whatever he'd seen in this dream had upset him so badly that he was nearly in a blind panic, not unlike an animal caught in a trap. It pained Hardin to see him like this, but he had no idea what to do. "Sydney, you must calm down-"

"Calm down," Sydney muttered, not slowing his pace one bit. "A simple thing for you to say, Hardin. For you, who does not believe in the gods or prophets."

"My belief or disbelief has nothing to do with it. I only meant-"

"Oh, does it not?" Sydney asked harshly. "Even if you had seen the things I have seen, you could simply let them fade away as a dream should, and not think upon it again. But I believe, Hardin - and soon you will as well!"

His voice rose angrily as he spoke, and Hardin frowned. "Sydney, you're raving like a madman! Please, calm yourself before you make yourself ill. Sit down, take deep breaths, try to relax..."

Sydney managed a shaky, hollow laugh. "You sound like a child's nursemaid," he said bitterly, but after a moment's hesitation, he did seat himself upon the edge of the bed. "Still thinking to look after your brother, are you?"

"My brother has nothing to do with it either." Sitting down, the way Sydney's shoulders heaved with every quick, shallow breath he drew was even more apparent, and Hardin saw that his hands, clutching the blanket around himself, were trembling, artificial though they might be. He looked so young and fragile that Hardin could not even manage to be angered by his mocking; he knew it for what it was, a response born of anxiety. "What is this about, Sydney? You've had these types of dreams before, haven't you?"

"Yes, but it becomes no easier with time," he said, his eyes dark and haunted. "If anything, it..." He broke off the thought in mid-sentence, and shook his head stubbornly. "I cannot speak of it, nor do I want to."

"All right..." Hardin was at a loss. Sydney wanted him to stay, but if he would not talk about it, what reason was there to stay? "Is there anything I can do for you? Perhaps a drink to relax your nerves..." Observing Sydney's current state of mind again, he revised his suggestion. "Or perhaps a few."

Sydney shook his head again, laughing a little nervously to himself. "Thank you, Hardin, but it will be dawn soon, and we will be preparing to leave shortly after. It would not do for me to be in my cups then, and we have only a few..." His voice broke, and he bowed his head in anguish. "Only a few hours before we are to depart. Hardin, perhaps I should have a drink after all - just a small one..."

"I'll bring some wine," Hardin agreed, relieved that there was something - anything - he could do. "Will that be suitable?"

Sydney nodded, his head still lowered. "...Thank you, Hardin."

No one was in the kitchen so early, and so it took Hardin a bit of time to find the chest in which the spirits were stored, but eventually he returned to Sydney's room with a bottle of red wine and two cups; it seemed to him that it would be somewhat rude to have Sydney drink alone, and after the dream Hardin had had, he could use a drink himself.

Sydney's emotional state had not improved, Hardin found when he returned, for Sydney was pacing restlessly again, and looked up sharply at the sound of the door opening. "Ah, good," he said quickly, between the shallow gasps of breath he took. "Hardin, thank you..."

Hardin paused to look at him as he set the two cups on the table. It was very uncharacteristic for Sydney to be overly grateful, and he even looked as if he were on the verge of tears. "Think nothing of it. Doesn't everyone need a friend now and then?"

"Perhaps you're right," he murmured breathlessly, pulling the blanket he'd wrapped himself in tighter around his shoulders as he shivered.

Hardin handed the first cup he poured to Sydney, who sipped at it cautiously while he poured his own. After he'd pulled the small table and chair over beside the bed, where Sydney had seated himself again, Hardin sat in silence, sipping at his own wine and keeping a watchful eye on the mage. It was odd, but somehow he felt protective of Sydney, and he was relieved to see the frenzied gleam in his eye fade as the minutes passed, even if his breath still came a bit too fast. Rather than mad, Sydney merely looked fearful and miserable, and though it wasn't a pleasant sight, it was easier to deal with. "Feeling better, are you?" Hardin asked him.

Sydney nodded slightly. "Yes, somewhat."

"That's good."

They lapsed back into silence as they drank, Hardin watching Sydney with pity. He looked weary and filled with dread, as though he were being hunted, and Hardin had to wonder what sort of gods Sydney worshipped. He wouldn't want to believe in any gods who would do this to a man.

Sydney shifted restlessly. "Hardin?"

"Yes?"

"Talk to me," he said softly. "About anything at all, except this."

A strange request, but Hardin supposed he understood. Sydney was picking up his worry about the matter, and so he was unable to put it out of his mind. "All right. Well then..." He paused for a moment, trying to think of something neutral and perhaps even uplifting to say, but nothing particularly interesting came to mind. "I've decided to stay on with Müllenkamp for the time being," he said finally. "You know my faith is weak, but after the past weeks, it is no longer entirely non-existant." Sydney rewarded his words with a small smile, though he did not so much as look up at Hardin. "Perhaps if I stay, I can make some sense out of everything... so much has gone wrong in my life, and the weeks I've spent with you and the brethren have been a time of peace. I know not where else I might find that peace, if I were to depart."

Sydney still did not respond, but his head hung a little lower as if the words upset him, though Hardin could not think why. "...The brethren have been good to me," he continued. "Padric and Duncan have been the first honest friends I can recall having since childhood. Gods!" Hardin let himself laugh lightly. "And to think we nearly killed each other when we first met! Who'd have thought we would become brothers in arms, let alone friends? And you, Sydney - I owe you a great debt, despite the differences we have had. I... suppose I must apologize for the accusations I made against you as well," he said, more seriously. "I was speaking out of fear, in my own blindness... but then, you know that. If nothing else, I can offer you my sword-arm for a time as recompense, for it seems as though you could use another, if the cardinal's men-"

His words stopped abruptly when he saw Sydney's shoulders begin to shake, and his left hand reach up to cover his face in anguish. "Sydney...?" Hardin said carefully. "What is it?" He got no response, and on a sudden impulse, rose from the chair to kneel before Sydney, looking up at him.

The mage's face was tight with agony, and Hardin couldn't stop himself from reaching out to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder as he had done to Hardin in the past. Sydney's reaction, however, was markedly different than Hardin's had been; he jerked away as if it had stung him. "Don't touch me, Hardin," he said bitterly, placing his cup upon the table and pulling the blanket tighter around himself. "I cannot bear it now... and besides, your own kindness betrays you. Do not let concern for me cause you to do anything you will regret."

Hardin hesitated, at first uncertain of what Sydney meant. When it finally dawned on him, he shook his head firmly. "I may still be unsure of... of what I feel... but it doesn't matter," he told Sydney. "What I am certain of now is that something has hurt you deeply."

"It is not as if I am unfamiliar with pain," Sydney muttered, refusing to meet his eyes.

Pausing to examine his motivations, Hardin found that there was indeed that troubling spark of desire within him, but he firmly forced that train of thought out of his mind. Besides the fact that it disturbed him, that urge was only a small thing beside the more imperative urge to simply do something to comfort Sydney. Clutching the blanket in trembling hands, his arms wrapped tightly around himself as if to hold himself together, he looked so small and forlorn that it made Hardin's heart ache.

"Go on back to your bed, Hardin," Sydney told him softly. "It is nearly dawn, and the brethren will wake soon..."

Again his voice broke, and he squeezed his eyes shut in pain. Hardin could bear it no longer, and ignoring his misgivings, rose to sit on the bed beside Sydney, placing his arms around the mage's thin shoulders to take him into a close embrace.

Almost immediately upon touching Sydney, however, a jolt of energy shot through him, strong enough to throw him backwards against the wall by the hearth. "I told you not to touch me!" Sydney shouted at him, rising to his feet in a rage.

Hardin's breath had been knocked out of him by the impact, and he stared up at Sydney in shock. The mage's eyes were alight with that half-mad look that he had seen in them earlier, and he trembled violently. "Forgive me, Sydney," Hardin said breathlessly, still uncertain of what had been so bad about what he'd done. Regardless, the wild fury in Sydney's eyes was nearly enough to kill a man with a look, and Hardin did not want to provoke him to do more than look.

With visible effort, Sydney struggled to regain control of himself. After a moment, he turned away. "Hardin, go back to bed," he whispered. "Tomorrow will be busy."

"Yes," Hardin agreed, still trying to catch his breath. "Of course." Once his head had stopped spinning, he got to his feet and turned to go, glancing back at Sydney over his shoulder. The mage's back was to him, the intricate tattoo partially exposed where Sydney had absently let the blanket fall away, and the way his shoulders moved told Hardin that he was having great difficulty trying to breathe evenly.

Well, if Sydney wanted him to leave, then he would, Hardin thought with sudden bitterness. All he'd wanted to do was help, but apparently whatever might help Sydney was beyond his understanding.

Only a few of the brethren had awakened yet by the time Hardin returned to their chamber - the handful of men and women whose task it was to start the cookfires for breakfast had already arisen and gone to the kitchens - but the faint lightening of the sky to the east, visible through one of the windows set high in the walls, told him the rest would awaken soon. It would be no use to lie down again at this point, and so Hardin joined the others in the kitchen, where he could aid them in getting a head start on loading supplies onto the cart.

His mind kept straying back to Sydney as he worked, until finally he took a moment to stop and view Sydney's room, just to see if he was all right. The fire in the hearth had been extinguished, he found, and the bed was made, but Sydney was no longer there. Curious, Hardin focused on Sydney's distinctive rhythms, and let his spiritual sight find him.

Now fully dressed in the black leather attire he usually wore, Sydney stood atop the tallest building in Leá Monde, the central dome of the great cathedral. One metal hand, gleaming in the first rays of sunlight, gripped the center of the gigantic rood that topped the ornate building as the strong ocean gales whipped his hair about his face. His expression seemed cold and composed as he gazed off to the east, but when Hardin caught a glimpse of the mage's eyes, he found them haunted still. Alone with the knowledge of the gods, Sydney stared into the sunrise with a look of dread.


	8. Magic Visions Stirring

The sun had not yet reached its peak in the sky when the men and women of Müllenkamp entered the tunnels below Leá Monde, ready to leave on their journey east. The cart and horses had been readied during the early morning hours, and were tied up outside, so now that the brethren had gathered their meager personal possessions, they were prepared to set out. Duncan had told Hardin that they probably would not return until summer, if then, and Hardin glanced around idly as they made their way through the streets and the mines to the portal. After the time he'd spent within the walls of Leá Monde, and the exercises he'd done with Sydney, he knew the city quite well - even the parts he'd not actually set foot in. Despite all that had befallen him here, he suspected he might actually miss it.

As for Sydney, no trace of the morning's distress was apparent even to Hardin. He walked in the midst of his followers silently, his face remote but serene above the draped fabric of the cloak he wore when travelling, and Hardin wasn't sure whether to be relieved or angered. He had been worried, after all, and here Sydney was acting as if nothing had happened.

Padric, who had been at the front of the party, slowed his pace momentarily to walk alongside him once they had passed through the portal. "Is all well with you this morning, Hardin? I woke early, and you appeared to have been up for a while already."

"Yes, I'm fine," Hardin told him. "A bit tired, but it is nothing that will not be solved by a good sleep tonight. A dream awakened me, and I thought to get a head start on the day's tasks."

"I see." Padric lapsed into silence for a moment, then turned to Hardin. "Will you be staying on with us, then?"

"I shall," agreed Hardin. "You and the others are good company, and I've no good reason not to."

Padric's dark eyes flickered back and forth to see if anyone was listening, before he spoke again. "Forgive me if I am intruding, but has your... situation... with Sydney resolved itself, then?"

The others around them seemed to be absorbed in their own conversations, so Hardin decided he could speak frankly. "Not entirely, but things are better than they once were." Thinking back on the events of the morning, he wondered if that were true. "Perhaps I understand myself a bit more now, but I can't say that I understand him at all."

"He is a complicated man, certainly," Padric commented, "but a good one at heart, that I believe. Whatever your soul decides, Hardin, I'm sure you will make the right decision, as long as it is what you truly want."

"Thank you for the confidence," Hardin said with a light shrug. "It seems my decisions have not always been wise ones, though, or I would not have spent over a year in prison."

"And you would not be travelling with us now," Padric pointed out. "You would not have met Duncan and I, and gained this talent of yours. Perhaps if not for the extra coin, the time you and your brother had together would have been much shorter. And now, it may be that the chain of events you have endured, unpleasant as they may have been, are leading you onward to a life better than you would have had otherwise."

Hardin shrugged absently. "You have a point."

"I will spare you the theology, friend, but every man's life is filled with decisions. For years now, it has been my way to do what I feel in my heart is right, and I can honestly say that I have no regrets."

"None whatsoever?"

Padric paused and shook his head with a smile. "None aside from wishing that I had listened to my heart more openly when I was younger. However, the past is the past."

Hardin chuckled. "You make a good case, Padric. I'll be sure to keep your advice in mind."

"I hope it suits you well, then. You have a good spirit, Hardin - please trust in it always." Padric clapped him on the back. "Now, I must go speak to Kermiak, if you'll excuse me..."

Hardin considered Padric's words after he'd gone, and wasn't sure if he could agree or not. Even if Philip's life had been cut shorter, at least he would have been with him until the end. As it was, he didn't even know if his brother had died alone, and that possibility combined with the many agonizing months of imprisonment did not seem a fair price for an unusual power and a few months of a more peaceful life than he had known in the past.

As they approached the road that led through the wood, Sydney abruptly held up a hand, motioning for them to halt. "We have company," he informed his followers. "It appears the Cardinal has set his sights on us once again. Armed men lie in wait for us within the forest."

A murmur ran through the brethren, and more than one curse was audible. Sydney didn't seem troubled, though, as he began to give instructions. "It will do no good to wait them out; undoubtedly they will have brought ample supplies for a siege, and they control the roads as well, while we have little food remaining. We may as well take them now - perhaps we can even surprise them, by not allowing them to surprise us," he added with a sly smile.

His words seemed to give his followers confidence, and there were a few chuckles. "They number more than we do," Sydney continued, "perhaps by as much as two score. Considering that we can control the Dark and they cannot, I would venture to say that it shall be a very unfair fight - for them." There were more chuckles and a few affirmations from the brethren. "Let us pair off, one fighter with one sorcerer where possible, and travel a little closer together than usual. That way they shall also be close together should they choose to surround us, and we will be ready to strike as soon as they appear, before they can make their way into our midst."

It seemed like an odd tactic to Hardin, but then he was used to battles that involved weapons rather than spells. Spellcasters most likely would have their own tactics, just as archers, cavalry, and pikemen were all to be deployed differently in a more common army, and he supposed if he was to stay with Müllenkamp for any real length of time, especially as a swordsman, he should probably learn about them.

"Those who are paired with fighters will be at the edge of our party, while the others remain in the center, around the cart, but not too close together, mind you." His smile turned devilish. "And all of you who can call the elements, please do refrain from calling flame or lightning in the midst of the trees this time - I dare say our encounter with the templars in Suendia last year was shorter than our efforts to put things right afterwards." Laughter rippled through the chamber as Sydney began to assign partners.

When they were divided up, Hardin found himself partnered with Branla, a short raven-haired girl whom he recognized as being one of Sydney's consorts. Despite her being a magic-user, she wore a shortsword on her belt, though she confessed to not being very good with it yet. Even so, if something went wrong, she said, she would fight for Sydney and Müllenkamp in whatever way that she could.

As they dropped to the back of the entourage, Hardin decided that Sydney had probably paired them off intentionally, for she began to explain their usual battle tactics to him, just as he'd wanted to know. "A spellcaster does not have quite the range of an archer," she told him, keeping her voice low so that any scouts would not hear them, "but magic can be directed more precisely - even around allies or obstacles, if the caster is skilled. And unlike an archer, a spell can be cast with the same effect whether the foe is fifty paces away or standing right beside you. However, if an enemy is so close that a fire spell cast upon him would scorch the caster as well, or when a lengthy incantation might offer the enemy a chance to attack, that is when a more conventional weapon becomes necessary. The spellcaster can still be useful even then, healing the fighter's wounds as soon as he receives them." She gave him an impish smile that could have come straight from Sydney's face. "So in essence, your sword will be a last resort. If all goes well, you need do nothing but stay out of my way."

Considering that the statement was coming from a rather small woman, Hardin wasn't sure whether to be amused or offended by it. "Ironic... in any other battle, I'd have told you the same."

He was somewhat relieved when she laughed. "Indeed, you'll find that physical appearances can be very deceptive when magic is involved. You'll see soon enough... and speaking of which, we draw near to the forest, so we should talk no more of this. Naturally, they know of our talents - we have beaten back the cardinal's lapdogs many times, which is why they send so many now - but they do not need to hear us speaking as though we're about to use them."

"Yes, of course," Hardin agreed with a nod, despite his growing curiosity. Sydney had said that the cardinal's men in the forest outnumbered them by perhaps two score, which put their number at close to a hundred. It was beyond him as to why the church would go to such trouble over Müllenkamp, when there were any number of small cults springing up all over Valendia - or at least there had been the last he had heard, according to the gossip of the brethren.

To their credit, the brethren acted completely nonchalant as they followed the road into the woods, chatting and laughing as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary. Branla asked Hardin a few inconsequential questions, and he did his best to make small talk, though it had never been a strong point of his.

Soon enough, Hardin's well-trained eyes spotted a small movement in the brush a few paces back from the road. No one else in their number seemed to notice, and he considered pointing it out to Branla, at least, but then he realized that even Sydney continued to act as if nothing were amiss. If he could sense the presence of the cardinal's men from all the way back inside Leá Monde, he must know exactly how close they were now, and he chose to ignore them. It was all as he would have it, no doubt, but Hardin still felt an uneasy chill down his spine as he walked past the place where he had seen the movement, knowing that he likely was turning his back upon a potential attacker. Regardless, he had been tensed and ready for battle as soon as Sydney had informed them of the templars' presence. Though his body had not used such skills in earnest for quite some time, it still remembered them.

They continued on like that for some time before the entourage halted, presumably at Sydney's command, though Hardin could not see from where he was. He could hear the mage's voice, however, as it rang out with obviously false cheerfulness. "Well met, Father Lachus! It has been some time, has it not?"

"Well met indeed," a clear voice called out in return from somewhere ahead of their party, low and stern. "For today is the day your heathens will find true salvation, Losstarot, if they but repent and turn from the evil path you've led them down. Even your sheep, filthy and wretched though they are, may be cleansed and be welcomed into our fold."

"Oh my - how generous of you!" Sydney's mocking reply came. "And when you say salvation, Father, just what do you mean? Salvation..."

Hardin felt a nudge at his side as he loosened his sword in its sheath, and looked over to see that Branla had a wide grin on her face as she lifted herself up onto the back of the cart. "This should be amusing," she whispered. "Sydney takes great delight in provoking them. Come up and watch."

Apparently it was all right, or she would not do so, and so Hardin followed her lead. Careful to remain fairly low, he still had a decent view of what lay before them - a dozen templars, armed and armored, blocked the width of the road before them as a single man addressed Sydney. Tall and fit, though in his middle years, and with an arrogant lift to his chin, Hardin assumed that this had to be Father Lachus.

"Salvation can mean so many things, as I'm sure you're aware, Father," Sydney continued, tapping one of his metal claws upon his crossed arms thoughtfully. "The villagers far to the north, where your men traversed for the last year... was salvation what you brought to them?"

The man's eyes narrowed a bit, and his chin raised higher in pride. "Yes, it was, but that has naught to do with you."

"Ah!" Sydney replied with a nod. "I see! This salvation of yours - it means to remove all traces of sin from the flesh by way of fire! And salvation occurs when peasants starve, children die, because they are forced to feed an army greater than their land can support with the small amounts of grain that can be grown in its poor soil."

The man held his proud posture, not giving an inch. "Lies," he stated. "It is true we burned witches - those who would not repent. For those who did, as I pray your followers will have the wisdom to do, forgiveness was granted, and they entered into the holy fellowship of God. And certainly we are not responsible for the poor harvest they endured that year."

"It was no poorer than years past, Father. In fact, I do believe they received a bountiful crop indeed - no doubt due to your blessed presence," Sydney added with a bow that managed to be rather sarcastic. "And yet, they suffered many losses due to hunger and disease. How very strange... Could not your powerful god have provided supplies for his army, instead of simply laying out a harsh plan of taxes and tributes that left many innocents penniless, unable to buy food?"

"We are not gods, but men, - earthly beings who must attend to their own earthly needs," Father Lachus replied. "Those villagers who died were taken by God to abide with him after they had repented of their sins. Perhaps he decided in his wisdom that they had endured enough; the life of those who dwell in the north is an ardous one. Indeed, what was given to us from the people of Gorilan was given as payment for the protection we offered from the bandits who plague them each year."

"Ah, I see I have misunderstood," Sydney said innocently. "That could not be the kind of salvation you offer my followers, as they are harried by none but yourself. Perhaps, then, you meant the kind of salvation you would like to give Brother Rohan, who serves now as your second. The kind of salvation you fantasize about as you watch him run through sword drills, and as your men bathe under your very watchful eye."

A few uncomfortable murmurs ran through the men positioned behind the priest, and he looked over his shoulder in shock. "What!? How dare you!" Father Lachus sputtered as he turned back to Sydney, his face turning red with fury - or was it shame, Hardin wondered with amusement? "Lies - again, lies! You seek to cause dissention among my men, but they are not so foolish as to believe the ludicrous accusations of a heretic such as yourself. All know it is you and your kind who engage in such filthy activities, witch - not the likes of us!"

"That I will not deny," Sydney replied simply, and when he turned back to face his followers, he had a very smug look on his face. "What say you, Aiden?"

"I say if such activities are filthy, then let me remain steeped in it."

"And you, Jared?"

"I've no care for the Father's 'salvation' - he appears stiff, boring," the man spoke up from somewhere in the middle of their number. "He does not look as though he would be as exciting a lover as you, Sydney."

A few chuckles arose from among the brethren, and Sydney smiled. "Thank you, dear Jared. And what think you, Gwynn, love?"

The young man stepped forward to place an arm intimately around Sydney's waist. "I agree with Jared. I'm sorry to disappoint you, Father, but I simply do not find you as attractive as Sydney."

Exclamations of disgust were audible from the templars behind Father Lachus - and even a few from those concealed within the forest, Hardin noted - as Sydney brushed his lips against Gwynn's. Next to Hardin, Branla was laughing openly, as were some of the other brethren, but he didn't know whether to be disturbed or amused.

"Hmm... how sad," Sydney commented as Gwynn returned to his place. "It looks as though my followers would rather remain in their sinful ways than accept the salvation you so generously offer, Father. Truly it is a shame, but we have someplace to go - so if you would kindly move your men...?"

Father Lachus looked absolutely ill after the display. "Never, Losstarot. We have been sent in the name of the blessed St. Iocus to purge the land of the evil you spread - and if your followers refuse to repent and walk in the light, then they will die in their sins, just as you will when the examiners are through with you."

Sydney just shook his head slowly. "The problem with your 'light'," he said, his voice soft and yet authoritative, "is that those who stare intently upon it will lose their vision. Just as many of your men, who refuse to believe what I have seen within your heart - many, Father, but not all! - for they are blinded by your light, and cannot see where the shadows truly fall. It is not the Dark that casts shadows upon mankind, but the light."

"More blasphemy and lies," Lachus said firmly through gritted teeth, his hand on the sword at his waist. "I hear tell that you do not die easily, Losstarot, and that is just as well, for the examiners want you brought in alive. But I'm very interested in seeing just how unpleasant this rumored 'immortality' of yours can be made."

"Then you are welcome to try, Father Lachus." With a flourish, Sydney's sword was drawn, and the cloak he wore thrown back over his shoulders to allow freer movement, as he regarded the priest with an arrogant smirk. Following the lead of the brethren, who also readied what weapons they carried, Hardin likewise brought his sword to hand as he and Branla climbed down from the back of the cart to resume their positions at the edge of Müllenkamp's party. "Though the despicable deeds and desires I have seen within you have already made my day far more unpleasant than anything you could do with your sword, you may try."

"Well then," the priest muttered, drawing his own weapon. Raising it, he gestured towards Sydney and the brethren. "Let us purge the land of their perversity!" he ordered his men. "Kill all but the prophet!"

A great shout arose from those behind him, and from those stationed in the forest as well as they revealed themselves, rushing in to surround Müllenkamp with weapons drawn. Long before they had come close enough to engage the brethren in hand-to-hand combat, bright lights flashed through the air, reflecting off the gilt-edged iron helmets and breastplates of the enemy, and nearly blinding Hardin, who had been watching their approach intently, and certainly had not been expecting that. He cursed himself for an idiot - what had he _thought_ would happen, when Sydney had paired the fighters off with spellcasters? - and regained his composure, preparing to act as soon as the templars were within the range of his broadsword.

Branla held her shortsword straight before her, cutting a slim silhouette against the glare as her voice rose in a chant. As she finished, holding the weapon aloft, a bright light flashed about the blade before streaming out to engulf the templars that were headed their direction. Exclamations of pain emerged from their throats as they crumpled to the ground, at least one mortally wounded, as far as Hardin could tell. The others were taken care of almost before they got to their feet by another spell from Branla, this one surrounding the young woman's blade in a globe of darkness before tendrils of dark energy shot forth, silencing the templars forever.

Hardin just watched in astonishment. It was just as well that Branla had told him to simply stay out of her way, because he had no intention of rushing forward to engage the enemy, several of whose armored corpses already littered the road. Firmly he reminded himself what Sydney had repeatedly told him about the Dark, that it was _not_ evil, and it was _not_ something to be shied away from, but something that could kill so easily, with naught but a few spoken words... how could any sane person not be wary of it?

Spell after spell burst in a circle around the brethren who gathered together at the center - wreathing their attackers in fire, freezing them in place, or simply striking them down with unearthly energy - but the cardinal's men pressed onward, gaining ground in several places. Hardin could hear the clash of swords beginning somewhere behind him, on the other side of the cart, and he knew that soon it would be his time to act, for Branla's chants were slowing, and she sounded out of breath. He shifted his blade in his right hand, crouching to spring forward when the enemy drew just a bit closer.

After one more spell, Branla turned to Hardin, looking weary, and made a beckoning gesture. "Your turn, swordsman. I shall back you up, of course - and don't you dare flinch when I assist you, or we both may die."

He nodded, moving to stand between the young woman and the templar that rushed at them, blocking the man's blade easily as it came down nearly upon his shoulder. Tossing it off, he made a thrust of his own, and though the templar's armor inhibited his movement somewhat, his parry was enough to knock Hardin's sword aside, causing it to merely dent the templar's armor slightly instead of dealing a killing blow.

His concentration on the battle at hand, he did not realize that he was being enchanted until motes of light swirled around him abruptly, settling on his weapon and on his person before vanishing. Branla had warned him not to flinch, and the detached, logical state of mind that went along with his swordplay reminded him of that, forcing him to ignore the uneasiness that he felt at being ensorcelled. He focused instead on the sudden burst of power the spell had given him as he continued to exchange blows with the soldier, who finally fell after a quick strike to the neck, barely exposed above the metal breastplate emblazoned with the symbol of St. Iocus.

Pulling his blood-smeared blade free, he immediately raised it again to strike at the next to approach. It had been a few years since he'd taken part in a battle, and he'd never been a part of such a large-scale melee, but he found quickly that the instincts he'd developed in the PeaceGuard were still as sharp as ever, as he felled enemy after enemy. After a short time, Branla resumed casting her spells towards those who approached their protective ring around the cart and the unskilled brethren in the center, which allowed no more than one or two of the templars to engage him at once, and the challenge was severely lessened. Still, the brethren were vastly outnumbered, and Hardin was beginning to tire when he was startled out of his fighter's trance by Sydney's voice, cutting through the din of battle in a chant of his own.

"...Perdes-illyr-vitonis-gylmota... Armor which averts solitude, blade which averts solace... In darkness do you dwell; from the blood I call you forth!"

The templars attacking Hardin threw their arms up to shield their eyes, abandoning the battle as a brilliant light illuminated the surrounding area and a sudden burst of wind whirled down the road with a great howl. After a moment's surprise, Hardin dispatched them before turning to see what sight had stopped them in their tracks.

Atop the cart piled high with crates, Sydney stood with one hand outstretched in a gesture of petition, the other shielding his own eyes as he gazed upwards into a vast disc of glowing energy, edged with runes just as the magic circles he drew were. Hardin nearly forgot the battle at hand as he saw two large armored boots emerge from the middle of the circle of light, descending to reveal dark plate leggings, and then the rest of a massive suit of armor hovering above, in perfect alignment despite being empty. As it settled upon the crates before Sydney, the sleeves moved to draw from the sheath at its immaterial waist a great sword, larger than any normal man could have wielded in both hands. The empty suit of armor, however, gripped it in a single armored fist as the light and the wind ceased, and it leapt down from the top of the cart, out of Hardin's view. He could, however, hear the panicked shouts and cries from the templars that lay in that direction, and could plainly see the slight curl of a satisfied smile on Sydney's lips as he looked on.

"By the gods..." Hardin breathed, staring after the monster in disbelief. As alarmed as he was, he didn't hear the templar approaching him from behind until Branla cried a warning to him. Though he whirled to block the man's blade the moment he heard her voice, it still penetrated his clumsy parry well enough to strike him in the side. Before he could retaliate, the ground buckled upwards just behind his attacker, sending the man stumbling to his knees, and Hardin quickly slashed the man's neck.

More motes of light settled around him, and the pain of his wound faded almost to nothing. "Pay attention to the task at hand," Branla reprimanded him as the healing energy dissipated. "Though Sydney's summoning gives us a great advantage, and the templars are scattering, the fight isn't over yet." Firmly putting aside his distraction, Hardin spared a moment to give her an apologetic nod, and then looked about to see from which direction his next opponent might come.

Much to his relief, few of the templars still seemed interested in fighting. Somewhere behind him, Father Lachus was screaming at his men, many of whom were disappearing into the surrounding forest rather than facing the unearthly creature Sydney had summoned. "We are the army of St. Iocus, blessed by God - do not behave as weak, faithless mercenaries! Have courage, men, and fight - we cannot be defeated by these heretics and their witchcraft!"

Seeing as no foes were left nearby, Branla relaxed and crossed her arms, chuckling, though her sword remained in hand. "Tell that to the dozen or so men that Sydney's little pet has already slaughtered."

Looking back, Hardin could see the top of the phantom warrior's armor as it moved about beyond the cart, and the blade of its sword cutting sharp arcs through the air as it attacked. "Should we go to aid the other brethren?" he asked, albeit with reluctance; having healing and protective spells cast upon him was something he could deal with, but he did not want to get anywhere near that creature if he could help it.

Branla shook her head. "We have been positioned here, and here we shall remain until the battle is won, unless something drastic is to happen. And besides," she said with a mischievous grin, "I believe they've enough help already."

Hardin nodded. It _was_ on their side, he reminded himself, no matter how frightening an apparition it was. There was little time to think on it, though; the templars were regrouping, and though the fighting was not nearly as fierce as it had been, the occasional soldier rushing to aid his companions found himself blocked by Hardin, whose strength and stamina were supplemented by Branla's spells as needed. His concentration not fully necessary, he could spare a puzzled thought as to why he could hear Duncan cursing a blue streak on the far side of the cart; the man had a rough tongue, but he was hurling insults at the templars that nearly made Hardin's ears bleed, just from what he could hear over the sounds of battle. It was unlike him to be so spiteful - but then, he'd never seen Duncan in a true battle before, and some of his fellows in the PeaceGuard had always seemed to fight better when they fought with their voices as well. Duncan was not the only one shouting, though, and there seemed to be a great commotion in his direction.

It was none of his concern at the moment, though, and Hardin firmly put it out of his mind until he found the road empty, no foes remaining. "Well done! Anyone who is not too weary, heal the wounded!" Sydney's voice called out, and Branla left Hardin's side to seek out those who might need help.

Hardin was in something of a daze as he wiped the blood from his blade, looking around at the bodies of the enemy scattered across the road. Smoke curled upwards from a few of the corpses, and he swallowed hard against a sudden surge of nausea. He'd had no idea that any of the brethren could be so powerful, except for Sydney himself.

And on the other hand, some of the brethren had been dealt what appeared to be mortal wounds, from the looks of them, but the quick ministrations of the sorcerers that knelt beside them quickly mended the torn flesh, binding the bones back together. The power to kill or heal with a word... Nothing could stand against that. He could have that kind of power, Sydney had told him, but he found himself troubled by the idea. He'd done nothing to deserve that sort of power, to take a man's life or give it back with little more than a thought. Even if there were no gods to decide matters of life and death, it did not rest in the hands of mortals; there were too many selfish and dishonest people in the world for it to be safe.

"Hardin." Branla's urgent voice roused him out of his thoughts, and he turned to see her standing at the corner of the cart. "I'm afraid something has happened..."

The grave look in her grey eyes told him that it was something serious; from the little they'd talked, she did not seem to be the type to fret over small things, and so he quickly followed her past the injured and the bodies of the templars to the far side of the cart, where the lesser powerful brethren had been huddled together during the fight. The massive creature Sydney had summoned was nowhere in sight, at least, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Those who were neither injured or aiding the injured were gathered there, and they wore solemn expressions as well. A few were in tears, including Kirrienne, who gave him a worried look before averting her eyes, and some of the others appeared bitterly angry. Hardin's first anxious thought was for Sydney's safety, but the mage stood at the side of the road a short distance away, speaking softly to Duncan, who looked furious.

"What do it matter, Sydney? I would've... gah, those bloody butchers!"

The mage nodded as he spoke more soft words. Hardin couldn't make them out, but the redhead's fists clenched tightly, and he gave no reply aside from a sullen nod. Apparently satisfied with the response, Sydney approached the assembled brethren, and Duncan followed, his face still dark and angry.

Sydney paused to look over those who stood before him, and his eyes lingered on Hardin for a moment before moving on. "We shall wait until everyone is present," he told his followers. "It should not be long before the wounded are healed sufficiently."

Wait for what, Hardin wondered as Duncan joined them silently, glaring down at the ground. "What is it?" Hardin murmured to him, going to speak with his friend.

"Ah, Hardin..." Duncan muttered helplessly. "Padric... he..."

Hardin looked around, frowning. The tall man was nowhere to be seen among the crowd of solemn faces, and an unsettling thought occurred to him. Searching the ground all around, though, he saw only armored bodies, though he knew Padric and Duncan had been placed just where the brethren were gathered. Something was most definitely wrong, though, or Padric would have been at his friend's side, as distraught as Duncan was. Hardin's anxiety grew stronger, but he could not bring himself to ask Duncan to explain.

"It be my fault," Duncan muttered under his breath after a moment. "He took a blade the bastards meant for me... turned to dust and light before my eyes. If I'd been quicker..."

Hardin was puzzled by his words. He couldn't mean... "Turned to dust and light?"

Duncan hesitated for a moment, shaking his head in disgust. "No one told ye, did they?"

"Told me what?"

"We servants o' the Dark have an unusual end," Duncan said bitterly. "We leave no trace. Padric took a sword in the neck, he disappeared like so much smoke."

Hardin narrowed his eyes in thought - Duncan wouldn't be making jokes if it were true that Padric had died, but... "You can't be serious."

"I wouldn't be nothin' _but_ bloody serious!" Duncan snapped at him. "My best friend just _died_, Hardin! What do it matter if he vanished, or left his mortal body behind, or turned into a-"

"Peace, Duncan." Sydney's voice was firm as the mage drew closer, placing a comforting hand on Duncan's shoulder. "He did not know... that is my fault."

The redhead fell silent, his jaw still clenched tightly in rage, and Sydney turned to Hardin. "I should have warned you," he admitted. "In all my concern for your training, it slipped my mind... and besides, it is not a subject that happens to come up often. You see, Hardin, those who serve the Dark do not die as normal men; as Duncan said, they leave no trace of their physical body behind."

Hardin tried to fathom this concept, and found it incredibly disturbing. So when he died, he would simply vanish? Nothing to be buried, or burned, or...

"We can speak of it later," Sydney told him. "You are not the only one who is distressed at the moment."

Hardin's mind reeled as the full implications of Sydney's words sunk in - Padric was dead. The idea seemed almost laughable. Of course people died in battle, but Padric was the best fighter among them, according to everyone he'd spoken to. He couldn't truly have been killed by the templars, especially not with the brethren's spells to back him up. They had slain dozens of the cardinal's men before swords had even become necessary - how could the most skillful swordsman among them have fallen? It was absurd...

A few minutes had passed while those who had been wounded and those who had attended them one by one joined the assembly, and Sydney finally addressed them.

"The battle belongs to us, brethren, but no victory is without its losses. ...We've lost a good man and a fine warrior in our friend Padric today."

A few murmurs ran through the brethren, from those who had only recently joined them and thus had missed Duncan's outburst. "He did not die in shame or in fear," Sydney continued, once the murmurs had quieted, "but with honor and courage - defending us, his sworn friends and family from their oppressors. A senseless death, yes, but one which praises him nonetheless. Doubtless the gods have rewarded him greatly for his faithfulness." Folding his metal hands in front of his chest, he bowed his head respectfully. "Ext liabrin taan gyltaris miakha."

The brethren murmured what must have been a ceremonial response in the ancient language, indecipherable to Hardin's ears due to the many voices, slightly out of sync with each other, and then Sydney's head rose again. "We must press onward - I fear the cardinal's men have planned something more for us than this skirmish," he told them. "Those who are up to the task, clear the road to the east. The rest of you... simply relax, and strengthen your hearts. This is not the last of our troubles by far." Little conversation passed between the brethren as they nodded and went to do as Sydney had said, a dark mood having been cast over the sunny day.

Hardin simply remained where he was, staring at Sydney in disbelief as the mage stood by, overseeing his followers as they set about removing the templars' corpses from the road ahead of the cart. His face remained perfectly serene and composed, just as it had been throughout his words to the brethren - he didn't seem to care at all, Hardin thought. Even he could not be so heartless, could he?

Finally Hardin summoned up the nerve to approach the mage. "What the hell was that all about?" he demanded. "Our friend just died, Sydney - Padric _died!_ He turned to dust! And you calmly speak a few vague words of spiritual nonsense and bid us to set off on our way again?"

Sydney's expression did not change, though he grasped Hardin's wrist firmly, leading him away from the brethren who were glancing at the two of them in alarm, and he gave them a knowing look over his shoulder. It was so patronizing that it only increased Hardin's anger. "Do you even care that one of your devoted followers died, Sydney? Or is that below you, seeing as you have no reason to fear death yourself?"

"Be calm, Hardin," Sydney told him coldly, not even looking back at him as he strode through the underbrush into the forest, pulling the larger man behind him. "You have lost a comrade in arms before, have you not? Do you always behave as such a child, when a man gives his life in a battle he chooses to fight, knowing that his death is a possibility? Such is the way of a warrior."

"I'm well aware of that, but this is different!"

Sydney halted, and turned to him. "How?"

"He..." Hardin stopped in mid-thought; he couldn't put it into words, not when he was so upset.

"Because he was your friend? And mine as well?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Hardin. "The man gave up everything to follow you, and died doing so - and you don't appear to be the slightest bit upset about it. It's as if once he vanished, he had never existed!"

Sydney's face grew somber at the accusation. "What do you suppose upset me so badly this morning?" he asked softly. "I have already grieved for Padric."

Hardin stared at him in astonishment, before he exploded with rage again. "Gods - that makes it even worse! Are you saying you knew he would die in this battle?"

"Yes."

"Why then did we engage the enemy at all, if you knew he would die? Why did you not keep him out of the battle? Could you not have at least warned him?"

"I did warn him."

Hardin bit back on an angry reply, not having expected that answer. The conversation he'd had with Padric just after they'd left Leá Monde suddenly came rushing back to him - _You have a good spirit, Hardin - please trust in it always._ Padric had always been subtle; no wonder Hardin hadn't noticed that he sounded as though he were saying goodbye. "He knew..."

"He did." Sydney's voice, though quiet, was firm.

"Then... why...?" Hardin didn't know what to ask first.

Sydney sighed softly. "I was also shown what would happen if he did not fight," he told Hardin, his eyes lowered. "If he was not to fight this battle, Duncan would have been partnered with someone less familiar, who could not protect him adequately. Though Padric would have lived, Duncan would have died in his stead."

Hardin was again stunned into silence by Sydney's words, and the memory of Padric's. _...Every man's life is filled with decisions. For years now, it has been my way to do what I feel in my heart is right, and I can honestly say that I have no regrets._

Turning away from Hardin, Sydney idly fidgeted with the low-hanging branch of a maple tree, plucking a few of the fresh new leaves to absently twirl between his claw-like fingers. "I let Padric know that the choice was his to make. If he chose to remain in the midst of the brethren instead of rushing to the forefront, it would not be his fault that Duncan died, but the fault of our attackers. Even so, he chose to fight, to defend Duncan."

"That's just not right," Hardin muttered helplessly. "There had to be something that could have been done to change it. You could have held us back in Leá Monde another day or two, even a week on the supplies we had remaining," he realized, growing angry once more. "We didn't have to go out to fight today-"

Sydney interrupted his ranting with a small, bitter laugh. "Do you think I did not consider it?" he asked. "You know nothing of prophecy, Hardin; the visions do not work in such a manner. Suppose I had followed my initial instincts and decided to wait a few days, until the danger was past. Perhaps three days from now would have been the day which the gods showed me, rather than today. Even had we been able to tarry in the dark city for another year, Padric would have died the day we left Leá Monde - that is what was given to me to know. The very day I met him, I knew that someday he would die in my service, though I did not know how until this very morning." The metal blades of his hand closed in a fist over the leaves they held, inadvertantly shredding them. "It was written long ago, and I am no god - I cannot change the course of a man's fate!"

Sydney sounded just as frustrated as Hardin was within his careful shroud of self-control, and Hardin realized that his own fury was misplaced; the mage was helpless to the whims of destiny just as any other man, even if he was able to predict them. "It's just not right!" Hardin repeated angrily. "What good are the gods, if they will place even their followers into a hopeless situation, with no hope of deliverance? Why should we honor them at all?"

Sydney hesitated a moment before turning back to him, a small bittersweet smile upon his lips. "Ah, Hardin..." he said gently. "I told you only hours ago that you would believe, but I did not know that you would come into this reawakening so indignant, crying as a babe pulled from the warm safety of his mother's womb."

Hardin opened his mouth to protest, then the full meaning of Sydney's words struck him. In his frustration, he hadn't entirely thought his words through, but Sydney was right - he did believe. What other explanation besides prophecy was there for Sydney's foreknowledge of Padric's death? And Sydney could not be lying, for Padric himself had known. It was the only logical conclusion, as illogical as it was...

And Sydney was right. He hated them. "Answer my questions, Sydney," he told him coldly. "If the gods will allow such things as happened today to occur, why would anyone want to serve them? What good does it do?"

"Faith and respect for the gods is not a miraculous solution to all mankind's problems," Sydney responded. "The only sure path by which a man can be freed of his troubles is death. It is not the gods that cause him pain, but the iniquitous souls of men. As long as man exists, there will be hardship."

"But if the gods are so powerful and worthy, why do they not stop this?" Hardin demanded. "Why do they allow injustices to continue - to let men slaughter and prey on the poor and the innocent - even in their names?"

Sydney raised an eyebrow. "And revoke one of their most precious and valuable gifts to man?"

"What the hell are you babbling about now?"

"Free will, Hardin," Sydney answered. "The gods gifted mankind with free will; and man, being an impure beast, often uses it in ways that harm others. Is that the gods' fault?"

"Yes! If they have the power to protect those who follow them, as Padric did, they should do so!"

Sydney shook his head, reproving. "Hardin, you are upset. Talking of theology or philosophy when one is overwrought very rarely leads to a meaningful epiphany." Turning away from Hardin, he began to walk back towards the road. "Besides, the brethren are waiting for us. Quiet your heart, and we shall talk again later if you wish."

"Damn you, Sydney!" Hardin exploded, making no move to follow him. "Is that all there is? Or are you merely running away because you can't answer me? If there is a reason for this, tell me!"

Sydney glanced back over his shoulder. "Your questions have been asked since the dawn of mankind," he admitted, "and perhaps there is no answer that a mortal man can comprehend. Or perhaps the answer is simply impossible to fathom after today's tragedy." Stretching out one metal limb towards Hardin, Sydney beckoned him to follow. "Come, Hardin. As much as has already taken place, the day is still young, and we have far to travel. I would not leave you behind."


	9. Kindled By and Burning

Once they had been rejoined by their beloved leader, Müllenkamp's followers set out once more, moving onward towards their destination to the east. Sydney urged them to hurry, for the battle had cost them valuable time, and the brethren did so with heavy hearts. Padric had been well-liked by his companions, and he would be missed terribly.

Of course, Duncan was the one who had been hardest hit by the loss, and he walked along sullenly, not saying a word to anyone. It was very unlike him, but Hardin supposed he understood, and so he made no attempts to draw the redhead out of his dark mood - it would be better to let his grief wear itself out, he supposed.

Besides, he didn't trust himself not to say something that would make his friend feel worse. His talk with Sydney had left him angry, and even a bit afraid. He didn't want to believe in such things as prophecy or fate - it meant he had no say in the outcome of his life, didn't it? Maybe it meant that it hadn't been his own poor choices that had led to his imprisonment, or the death of his brother, but that was no real comfort when the alternative was that it had all been fabricated purposely by some divine being.

_Whoever you are... whatever you are... just leave me alone._

As he silently kept pace alongside Duncan, just to let his friend know he was there, his confusion must have been apparent in his eyes, for Kirrienne quickened her steps to join them. "I'm sorry about Padric," she murmured to the two of them.

Duncan, lost in his somber thoughts, didn't seem to even hear her words, but Hardin turned to her and nodded his appreciation. "How are you doing?" she asked softly.

Without thinking, he gave her an automatic response. "Just fine."

She gave him a small, skeptical smile. "Of course you are." Reaching out to him, she laced her slender fingers through his large ones, squeezing his hand for a moment. "It happens, you know."

Somewhat startled by the physical contact, Hardin almost pulled away before she had a chance to release him on her own. In truth, he didn't mind, but he didn't want her to get the wrong idea, even if she was offering nothing but friendship. "What happens?" he asked, after he'd collected his thoughts.

"Casualties. Not that I have to tell you, I suppose," she acknowledged. "You were a soldier, so you know about battles. ...And I know it's probably not the best time to say such things," she admitted, her cheeks coloring faintly as Hardin looked at her absently, "but from where I and the others were, in the center, I saw a little of the battle. You're quite accomplished with a sword."

"I agree," Branla stated. She'd been walking a short distance ahead of them, and slowed somewhat to walk alongside Kirrienne. "And regardless of my criticism earlier, you did much better in your first battle with magic-users than many do."

"...Thank you." Kirrienne was right, it was not the best time to say such things, but it was kind of them regardless.

"Anyhow," Kirrienne continued, "what happened today isn't unusual, unfortunately. We come under attack often... and sometimes people die. Not as often as you might think, though - I say it is a miracle we are not all dead already."

"The cardinal hates us with a passion, it seems," Branla affirmed, "and no matter how his men outnumber us, yet we never have lost more than two of our brethren in a single battle. 'Tis uncanny, actually."

"Perhaps, but we do have the gods on our side," Kirrienne reminded her. "And even if not for them, then we would still have Sydney, and he is a miracle in himself." The raven-haired woman nodded in agreement.

Hardin did not particularly want to think about the gods or Sydney at the moment, and he found himself looking to Duncan's left, where Padric nearly always walked, thinking to strike up a less troubling conversation about swordfighting or the like. Duncan's somber expression reminded him abruptly of what had happened, and Hardin sighed, feeling foolish. Of course Padric wasn't there - Padric was dead.

...Padric was never going to be there again, no matter how many times he looked, Hardin realized suddenly. Padric really _was_ gone. As angry as he had been earlier, he hadn't entirely comprehended it, but now that knowledge was sinking in, and it felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Padric was gone, in the blink of an eye, without even leaving an empty shell behind to prove that he'd once existed. There had been no burial, no chance to pay him last respects - just like...

Hardin drew in a sharp breath suddenly, feeling suddenly dizzy and overwhelmed. He tried to ignore the realization, even to deny it or tell himself that it was nothing he hadn't already known, but the thought consumed him until it was all he could do to keep himself moving forward, placing one foot before the other.

Finally, knowing what was going to happen and that it was unavoidable, he dropped back from his place alongside Duncan and the two women, and stepped off the road. Lost in his own thoughts, Duncan didn't even seem to notice, but the women paused and turned back to him. "Hardin...? Are you all right?" Kirrienne inquired.

"I'll... be back in a moment," he murmured, his breath coming awkwardly with the effort to hold himself together. "I'm feeling a bit ill."

Branla's nod was sympathetic, though her voice was hard. "I understand - what we've seen today is enough to turn any man's stomach."

"Will you be all right alone?" Kirrienne asked.

He managed to nod. "I'll be fine."

Fortunately, they did not press the issue, and Hardin stepped into the underbrush, carelessly stumbling over exposed roots as he made his way deeper into the forest. With all his concentration spent on trying to keep his composure for just a little longer, until he was far beyond their hearing, he pushed his way past the bushes and stray branches in his path without even seeing them, until he could bear it no longer. Sinking down with his back against a tree, Hardin covered his eyes, and began to cry.

He hadn't cried, not _really_ cried, for as long as he could remember. Despite all the hardships, all the difficult years, he'd never allowed himself the luxury of tears. He was too well-born for such childish behavior, and besides, Philip had needed him to be strong. But his family was gone now, the name remaining only with him, and tarnished by his disobedience. And Philip...

Since he hadn't been there when it had happened, since the only proof he had of his brother's death was an empty house and a headstone in a cemetary, it had never seemed entirely real to him. He might have known it, and even acted as if he believed it, but he'd been occupied with the need to flee the king's men, never taking a moment to truly think about it, much less accept that it had come to pass. By the time he'd encountered Müllenkamp on that stormy night, which seemed a lifetime ago now, the knowledge had been with him long enough that it had just become a part of him - something he repeated by habit. And now, as the tears came silently, they seemed such a ridiculously small display for one whom he'd cared so much for that it shamed him further. Even now, away from anyone who possibly could have seen, he instinctively fought the tears back as if his life depended on it.

Hardin had turned his back for a moment, and suddenly Padric was gone, never to return, though he hadn't seen it happen. And it was the same with Philip; his little brother, the one person he'd been closer to than anyone, his reason for all the things good and bad that he had done, was gone forever. He'd clung to that responsibility to keep himself occupied after their parents had died, so he would not have to think about it, and now even after Philip was gone, he'd fooled himself into thinking that he was still bound to that duty. Chasing foolishly after the quicksilver in the undercity, trying to comfort Sydney by taking him in his arms - it was because the entire sum of his life had been caring for Philip. He knew how to do little else aside from that task, and with that responsibility gone, nothing was left within him. Nothing at all.

Gods, why was he still alive? Why had he bothered to run from the king's guard, when he could have simply lived out the rest of his meaningless life effortlessly in a dungeon, or perhaps found a quick death at their hands? There was nothing remaining in him, and nothing remaining for him. Why could they have not just let him die?

Lost in his misery, Hardin didn't realize that he wasn't alone until a shadow fell across him, and he glanced up. Ordinarily he would have been disgusted with himself for not hearing Sydney's approach, but at the moment he failed to care. Besides, Sydney might have simply appeared from out of nowhere, as he was sometimes known to do. Either way, the mage stood above him now, gazing down at him. Hardin thought that perhaps he should have felt self-conscious for showing his weakness before him, but again, at the moment it just didn't seem to matter. "What is it?" he asked, his voice dulled by his pain. "Am I slowing you down? Then go on - leave me behind."

He hadn't really expected Sydney to do so, so he wasn't overly surprised when the mage instead sat down beside him, leaning back against the trunk of the tree. He said nothing, however, simply staring up into the tops of the trees above them, his legs crossed before him and his metal hands folded in his lap. Finally Hardin leaned back as well, staring into the treetops bleakly, unable to shed any more tears in front of Sydney - his dignity didn't allow it, even if he had been overwhelmed for a moment.

A few moments later, a soft clicking sound made Hardin turn his head, and he found Sydney opening a wine bottle. "I did not drink much after you left this morning," the mage said, taking the two cups Hardin had brought that morning from within the folds of his dark cloak. Setting them on the ground between himself and Hardin, he began to pour. "I suspected that someone might need it."

Hardin tried to pull himself together and accept the cup Sydney offered, but only stared down into the red liquid wordlessly as Sydney poured his own cup and took a long drink. He'd finished most of it before he nudged Hardin's arm, motioning with a metal claw to his cup. "Go on, Hardin - drink. The gods know you could stand to have a bit less self-control, and if it eases your mind, so much the better."

Hardin just shook his head, his eyes still filled with tears despite his resolve. "Why are you here, Sydney?"

Filling his cup again, Sydney kept his attentions on the wine as he replied. "What was it you said to me this morning...? 'Everyone needs a friend now and then'?" He took another long drink before continuing. "And perhaps a drink or two as well."

"It didn't seem to do you much good," Hardin murmured absently. Strange, but so much had happened that his visit to Sydney's bedchambers seemed as though it were a long time ago already.

"It did more good than you might think." Sydney paused, swirling the wine in his cup. "I do not speak only of the wine, of course. You are a good man, Hardin, and that is why I am with you now. You were kind to me when I needed a friend."

"You treat your friends oddly," Hardin muttered. He found that he was no longer angry with Sydney for rebuffing him so violently - but that might have been because he had much more to be upset about now, and the thought nearly made him start to cry again. Instead, he quickly took Sydney's advice and drank deeply, trying to blink back his tears and the tightness in his throat.

"You did nothing wrong, Hardin. To a normal man, your actions would have been most welcome, I imagine, but..." Sydney paused again, seemingly undecided as to whether he should say more. "...I have a... well..." he began, sounding almost self-conscious, and Hardin glanced over at him, curious. Finally the mage sighed. "Let us say that there are some things about me that are not entirely normal."

Hardin looked at the mage, and despite his anguish, abruptly began to laugh so hard that he nearly spilled his drink.

Sydney's eyes widened in alarm at the sudden noise, then narrowed in irritation. Hardin could not stop laughing helplessly, though he felt somewhat bad about it; Sydney had been attempting to explain a personal aspect of himself, and here he was roaring with laughter like a madman. He knew he really should apologize, but he could not stop laughing long enough.

Fortunately, Sydney seemed to decide it was of no consequence, and began to smile a little himself. "I suppose that was a bit of an understatement, wasn't it?" he commented.

Hardin couldn't manage a response, busy as he was attempting to catch his breath. It had undoubtedly been years since he'd laughed so hard, since he'd let himself go in that manner. Almost immediately, though, he recognized his error; with the rush of his chaotic emotions, his mirth turned to bitter sobs, and the tears he'd been trying to hold back for years streamed down his face.

Dimly he was aware of Sydney moving beside him, kneeling before him and taking the cup from him before his suddenly shaking hands dropped it. Arms of cold metal enfolded him, drawing him close, and Hardin let himself fall into that embrace.

Sydney was murmuring in his ear when his head had cleared enough that he was able to hear the words. "Ah, Hardin... always the comforter, always the caregiver... no one has ever comforted or cared for you since your childhood, have they? You give and give of all the good in yourself, keeping every unwelcome and unpleasant thought tucked away until it is all you have left... Did you not know that it is no shame to release those things? Anything a man keeps to himself for too long will eventually spoil and sour, turning to poison within... For a man who gives himself as you do, you have the right to share them, and to ask for what you may need to take..."

Sydney's voice was soft and soothing, and Hardin let his head rest upon the smaller man's shoulder as he listened, feeling a strange, hollow ache. With even his pain released at last, he felt almost like a shadow; there was nothing remaining in his heart to make him feel alive.

"Every man needs to take now and then - it is not a sign of weakness. It is all right, Hardin - all will be well. All will be well, my friend..." A stiff metal hand gently placed itself upon the back of Hardin's neck as he quieted. "Every man has needs, and desires, and... Hardin, please forgive me..."

Hardin raised his head to look at Sydney, about to ask what he would ask forgiveness for, and the mage's face lowered to meet his.

Sydney's lips were soft, warm, and comforting as those of any woman Hardin ever had kissed, and he let himself be lost in the powerful sensations they imparted in him. His mouth opened to drink them in, and Sydney's lips parted in response; he had the cool taste of red wine in his mouth, and Hardin savored the contrast between the sharpness of Sydney's teeth and the softness of his tongue pressing against his own. The rising feelings of desire began to melt the cold emptiness that so consumed him, and Hardin's left hand rose to cup the back of Sydney's head, tenderly stroking his hair as his right arm encircled Sydney's slender waist, pulling him closer.

Sydney was the one who finally let go, as he abruptly found the larger man pushing back the heavy cloak he wore, tugging at the fastenings that held it closed at the neck. "Hardin...?"

"This emptiness... I can't bear it, Sydney," Hardin said, his voice hoarse with desperation as he finally managed to loose the fastening and push Sydney's cloak off his shoulders, leaving the mage's upper body bare while he began to shrug off his own jacket. "There is nothing left of the man I once was..."

Sydney looked down in mild surprise as Hardin reached out to him again, his hands this time moving down to untie the cords that held the loose leather pants to the mage's hips. "This is not like you in the least," he reproved Hardin.

Even so, Sydney was unable to suppress a sharp breath of pleasure when Hardin's hands brushed against the sensitive skin below his waist, and Hardin felt a sharp glimmer of satisfaction through the barrenness in his heart. Only a spark, but he grasped at it desperately, aching to feel more, to drive back the emptiness that consumed him. "I know it is unlike me - and I don't care anymore, Sydney," he said vehemently, fumbling with the cords, only dimly seen through the tears in his eyes. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? As for me, I need to be filled again. I need to feel... something, anything... it doesn't matter..."

Metal hands covered those of flesh, squeezing them lightly. "The man you once were still exists - he has just retreated for a time, to recover what he has lost. When you come back to yourself, you would no doubt regret this."

"There is no way to recover what I have lost," Hardin muttered, ignoring Sydney's hands as he concentrated on undoing the baffling knots that impeded his progress. "Can you bring the dead back to life, prophet? Damn it! How can you tie so tight a knot with those claws of yours?"

"Hardin..." Sydney's grip grew tighter, and he pulled Hardin's hands away. "This is not you," he said gently, his eyes meeting Hardin's pained ones. "The man who desires me now is a stranger, and I would not make love to a stranger." He smiled faintly, an edge of mischief showing in his eyes. "Even if he has a very exciting kiss. But all this..." He sobered again, gesturing at the surrounding area. "These are not the actions of the man of whom I've grown so fond in the past weeks."

Looking around at his discarded jacket, the cloak he had roughly removed, the cup he had knocked over, the reality of what he was doing began to sink in, and Hardin recognized the truth in Sydney's words. As desolate and empty as he was, he could not even cry anymore; the raw pain and anger were lost in a dull ache, and so he only sat back against the tree wearily, disgusted by his own behavior. "Sydney..."

"I know." Sydney breathed a light sigh of relief, though a shaky one; apparently his own control had been disrupted in the face of Hardin's lack of it. "You will see; your life may have been torn apart, but your soul remains as strong as ever, and this can do nothing but make it stronger yet. But for now..." Giving Hardin an encouraging smile, Sydney sat down against the tree once more, slipping his arm around Hardin's shoulders. "Rest easy, Hardin. Rest easy, and know that all will be well in time."

Drained as he was, Hardin still cared nothing for propriety, and so he leaned his head wearily upon the mage's shoulder. He could not believe that all would be well as Sydney said, but yes, there was comfort in his faith, and in his gentle touch. _Everything is wrong_, Hardin thought to himself bleakly. _Everything... except this._

Sydney reached over to take Hardin's left hand in his own, and though the metal was chill in the spring air, Hardin felt it warm gradually at his touch. It was strange - perhaps it was because he'd lost everything normal and familiar in his life that he could accept such an unusual kinship with such an unusual man.

"I know you are angry with the gods," Sydney said softly after a time. "But take comfort in this - if the gods I speak of exist, then an afterlife does as well. The gods take the innocent to themselves with open arms; Philip's suffering has ended, and he has entered into paradise. And as for Padric... those who serve the gods and the Dark have their options. His soul may live on as one of the wandering spirits, protecting the living from those menaces that are unseen to mortal eyes; or perhaps he will be reborn in time. Or it may be that he too is in paradise - perhaps even watching over Philip until you are to be reunited. The death of the body is but the start of many new paths, it is not such a terrible thing."

"Why then should I not take my own life today?"

"Because life can be a beautiful thing," the mage replied simply. "The most harsh discord that man causes can be resolved into resounding, full harmonies in the hands of one who makes such an effort - just as a bard who diligently studies his instrument. And just as no two instruments are alike, so are the lives of man. Even if you were to be reborn, thinking to get a fresh start, what you have learned thus far would be of no use."

"Hmm." Philip in paradise, and Padric's gentle soul living on, as a guardian or in a new body. Hardin wanted to be able to believe it...

"And besides," Sydney added, "would you have me mourn another today, as if it were not enough that I and the brethren have lost one companion?"

"No, of course not." Hardin smiled tiredly as Sydney's hand squeezed his, and he tightened his own in response, wondering if Sydney's artificial hand could even feel it.

Many moments of deliberation passed before Hardin spoke again. "Sydney," he murmured. "...Teach me about your gods."

Sydney turned his head, looking intently at Hardin with some strange, unidentifiable emotion on his face. After a moment, it resolved into one of his slight, melancholy smiles. "If that is what you wish," he agreed quietly. "And your first lesson is this..."

Turning to kneel beside Hardin, the mage pulled the larger man into an embrace as he had earlier. A feeling of peace settled upon Hardin, filling the empty longing in his heart completely as Sydney's arms gently encircled him - arms that this time did not seem to be composed of cold, hard metal, but of pure love, far beyond mortal comprehension. "If you learn nothing else of the gods, friend Hardin, remember this."

This time as Hardin wept, he felt no shame.


	10. Flames Rise in Her Eyes

The next days were difficult, for Hardin's grief had left him feeling raw, as if his skin had been stripped away. The smallest things could set him off, bringing a tear to his eyes or a sharp word to his throat, but he stifled those things as well as he could; he wanted no attention drawn to his vulnerability. After the first few times someone mentioned a young loved one they'd left behind, or expressed regret that Padric was not there to aid with some task, Hardin took to avoiding the brethren when at all possible, but often it was not.

Fortunately, Sydney protected him from the majority of those provocations. He'd taken Hardin under his wing while they continued their travels, teaching him in the ways of the gods as he had asked and subtly shooing the other brethren away when they might approach him with a potentially sensitive subject. They would never dream of invading their leader's privacy; this left Hardin effectively alone with Sydney for much of the time, and the mage's lecturing contained little that could be considered upsetting, though the tales he told were often unpleasant.

From the heretical mysteries uncovered by their Lady thousands of years ago and her subsequent gruesome death, to Sydney's own terrible visions of the world burning at the hands of a man turned demon, Hardin quickly became aware that the history of Müllenkamp was a disturbing one. Regardless, except for Sydney's prophecies, it was indeed history, and there was no point in being upset over things that had passed long ago.

And as for Sydney's gods themselves, those worshipped by the ancient peoples of Kiltia, the idea did not bother him so much anymore. Fate, prophecy - those things frightened him, but in Sydney's arms he had felt something far beyond Sydney himself, a deep feeling of comfort, understanding, and the most perfect love. Thinking about it even days later was still enough to make him catch his breath, wondering if it could have truly been as he remembered.

Since that time, though, Sydney's lessons had all been of the most mundane variety, impersonal and delivered with no warmth, even when he spoke of those deities who were characterized by their gentle caring and their love for mankind. Though Hardin found it a little disappointing, he was torn between yearning to feel more of what he'd felt before and guarding against it, lest he be overcome by his feelings again. Instruction and reasoning were things he could deal with, but he'd closed himself off to any depth of emotion for so long that he could not remember how to handle it.

The one upsetting thing about his lessons, in truth, was the way Sydney had become so detached. Hardin was incredibly grateful that Sydney had stopped him from making a complete fool of himself, but it troubled him that they'd been so close, even if only for a few moments, and now the mage was as cool and distant as in the days when he'd first instructed Hardin in the use of the new talent the Dark had granted him. Hardin was already confused enough as to what he was to Sydney without that reversion. They were not lovers, at least not yet - there were enough precedents that Hardin thought such a thing could someday come to pass, and he couldn't decide what he felt about that - but the kiss Sydney had instigated certainly had made them something more than mere friends. And yet Sydney now treated him more as a teacher might treat a pupil, never betraying a trace of himself in the words he chose, and that seemed like less than friendship to Hardin. They could not have it both ways, and Hardin wished irritably that Sydney would make up his mind. No matter which way he chose, it could not be worse than the indecision.

Hardin said nothing, however, due to both Sydney's emotional distance and the tightness Hardin saw in the mage's eyes, when his mind wandered from the lessons to simple contemplation of Sydney himself. Few others would have noticed, most likely, but the mage seemed preoccupied and worried, and this opinion was confirmed by what Hardin saw at night. Though Sydney had forbidden him from keeping the night watch as he'd done before, telling him to simply rest and give his soul the time it needed to heal, Hardin's talent had removed any need to physically seek Sydney out to watch over him. He tried to sleep as Sydney had bade him, but sometimes when he awoke in the middle of the night, his scrying revealed Sydney to be lying awake, staring up into the tops of the trees below which they had set up camp, looking troubled. At other times, he found the mage curled up on his side, his face turned down into his pillow to absorb the quiet tears he shed. Strangely enough, though he still removed himself from the midst of the brethren, he slept alone now. In a way, Hardin was glad - childish as it was, he'd have felt rather inadequate if Sydney had turned him down only to seek comfort in the embrace of his many consorts. Even so, it seemed that something should have been done to ease Sydney's pain. More than once his spiritual self knelt beside the mage, reaching out a phantom hand to offer reassurance in the form of a soft caress, only to recall that Sydney would not feel it.

It wasn't as if he didn't have reason to be upset, of course - Padric's death had shaken them all, and Sydney had said openly that he suspected the cardinal's men had more in store for them. There were many reasons a man in his position could be anxious, but Sydney denied his anxiety during the day, keeping it hidden within. It was his way, apparently, but it pained Hardin to see Sydney go without the comfort he himself had offered.

His inhibitions having been undermined by his turbulent emotions, Hardin finally spoke up one day, as Sydney was in the midst of one of his lectures.

"Though some would worship Djinn, Dao, Marid, and Ifrit as deities, that is not the truth of them; they are simply the most powerful of the elemental spirits, created as rulers and dispensers of the energy that has been given unto-"

"Why is it that you insist upon suffering all alone?"

Sydney looked up sharply, surprised at Hardin's quiet interruption, completely unrelated to the matter at hand, but he said nothing.

"You told me yourself that there is no shame in admitting weakness or need," Hardin continued, meeting Sydney's piercing gaze with the solemn determination only found in one who has stopped caring about the penalties. "Is it so difficult for you to say simply 'I am afraid', or 'I hurt'...? If I could do it, surely you could as well, for you are stronger than I."

Sydney regarded the larger man with slight curiosity for a moment longer, then spoke.

"Anyhow, though they are not deities, a magic-user must respect the elemental guardians - for from them flow the energies we weave, to harm or to heal..."

Hardin sighed in frustration as Sydney continued on with his lecture, ignoring his words completely. He hadn't expected Sydney to suddenly open up to him, of course, but he'd expected some kind of response, or at least acknowledgement.

But without regard for feelings or personal relations, life continued onward, and so did the brethren. Normally the journey from Leá Monde to the village of Fentegel, nestled among the hills in the rolling southern lands, would have taken six days for such a large group of travellers, but at Sydney's urging, they managed to draw within sight of the village late upon the fifth day. Or rather, they would have, if there had been more remaining of Fentegel to see.

Nothing greeted them upon their arrival but blackened stone, charred timber, and ashes lining the streets. The faint smell of smoke still lingered, and those among the brethren who were knowledgeable about such things agreed that it must have been only a few days ago that the village had burned to the ground. A quick mental scan of the area performed by Sydney told them that no one remained in the immediate vicinity, and it was safe to approach, to get a better look at what had happened.

Hardin, Kermiak, and a few of the others had experience in tracking, and turned up some interesting marks despite the tightly packed dirt of the streets leading into town. A little more investigation revealed clearer prints along the side of the road, and though weathered a bit, they were easily recognizable. "The king's men, or the cardinal's," Kermiak declared, upon examining a hoofprint. "There's little enough difference between the two, as it is. The way the shoe turns in so slightly there - that's the design of the king's blacksmiths." Hardin nodded, confirming Kermiak's appraisal; he knew that distinctive horseshoe pattern as well.

"Almost certainly the king's men, though," Branla added. The young woman did not know much about tracking, but she claimed she was trying to learn, and had been watching the activity with interest. "The cardinal wouldn't dirty the hands of his own men with such senseless violence - not when the king's men are so readily available to him."

That was something that had changed during Hardin's time in prison, apparently - or perhaps it had just been that as one of the king's men himself, he'd been blinded to the reality of the situation just as Father Lachus' men had been, for it seemed unlikely that such a drastic change should come about so quickly. Either way, the brethen's talk of the political situation told him disturbing things; the king was little more than a puppet, it seemed, with his strings being pulled by the cardinal. The parliament was divided over who should rule over them, whether the monarchy or the church, but their infighting was meaningless when one was essentially the same as the other. There were still some proponents of freedom of religion within their number, but one by one they were being silenced, some under mysterious circumstances, until only a few remained. Things did not bode well for Müllenkamp, nor for other religious groups scattered around the country, and though they may have had different theologies, the brethren and Sydney sympathized with those whose beliefs were considered unacceptable by the governing bodies.

Months ago, Hardin might have taken such talk as mere gossip and paranoia, but the more he thought about it, the more he recalled signs of just such a situation from when he had been in the PeaceGuard, though he'd never thought much on it at the time. It had been his business simply to follow orders, not to ask why - and he'd done things that in retrospect had been little better than this atrocity that had been laid out before his eyes. "So they torched the village," Hardin muttered. "And all because the people supported you?"

"There's no way to tell for certain," Kermiak admitted, "but it's the most likely scenario. What other reason would someone have for burning a quiet little village in the middle of nowhere?"

"No idea." Still kneeling by the prints, Hardin looked out over the scorched and blackened remnants of the buildings. Though Fentegel had not been a large village, it still stretched out further through the hills than was visible from the west edge of town. "How many lived here?"

"Two hundred, p'rhaps two hundred fifty," Duncan spoke up. He'd been uncommonly quiet ever since Padric's death, and was just beginning to come out of it a bit. "An' few of them truly believed in our gods - they just were willing to give us an honest day's work. It weren't as if they were burnin' witches as the cardinal loves to do."

"Gods..." Hardin's fist struck the ground in a gesture of impotent rage. Over two hundred men, women, and children had died for the crime of being tolerant. What was wrong with the world, that such a thing could happen?

"Some escaped, I believe," Kermiak called back to them. He'd wandered east along the outskirts of the village while Hardin was lost in thought, and now gestured for them to come take a look. "More prints, in the days following the fire, from the looks of it," he pointed out when they'd gotten closer. "Work boots and soft leather shoes, mostly, and some small. Definitely not the footprints of soldiers."

"The survivors are hiding in the forest to the south." Hardin and the others turned at the soft sound of Sydney's voice; none had heard the mage approach. "They must be weary by now, and hungry," Sydney continued. "Kermiak, Branla, go to Domenic and tell him to ready one of the horses. Load a generous supply of our remaining rations, and seek out these refugees to offer supplies and condolences. ...And if necessary, apologies. Take Henna with you - her talent will prove useful in determining their reaction before you approach." A risky wager, for Henna was a heartseer, the most sensitive of those remaining, but her frailty left her nearly helpless in a hostile situation. No doubt this task would have best been suited to Padric; his death had been a great loss on many levels.

Of course, there was a solution that would avoid Henna's necessity, and make the whole ordeal go quicker besides. "Why don't you go yourself, Sydney?" Hardin suggested.

An ironic smile twisted Sydney's lips, and he tugged the dark hood of his cloak up over his head as he turned away. "Somehow I think they might not be happy to see the one indirectly responsible for the deaths of their friends and families. It would be best to have a more neutral envoy, for the time being."

"Hmm." Hardin could see the reasoning behind that, as unfair as it was. But then, there was nothing fair about what had happened to the villagers, either. The whole damned world was unfair, really, and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. But _someone_ had to be able to do something.

Sydney had apparently told the rest of his followers to make camp for the evening, Hardin discovered when he and Duncan returned to where they had left the others, and Duncan immediately went to help with the labor, for it was growing dark. Hardin should have joined him, but once at the top of the hill, he turned to glance back at the ruined buildings. If not for his petty crimes, he realized, and his subsequent discharge and imprisonment, he might have been one of those dispatched to carry out these orders. He wouldn't have questioned it, of course - that was how life had been in the PeaceGuard. An order was an order, and one mark of a good officer was that he simply followed them without second-guessing; the commander always knew best. Whether the commander ordered them to bring about justice, meddle with matters of life and death, or to kill in cold blood - it did not matter.

He'd been such a _sheep_. The thought sickened him, and it was all the much worse to think that he'd probably never have noticed if he hadn't been driven to desperation by his brother's illness. But he had choices now, he reminded himself. He was sworn to no one anymore, and if anyone gave him orders, he had the option to refuse.

His heart troubled, Hardin glanced around the crest of the hills for Sydney - as much as the mage frustrated him, somehow his meticulous self-control helped Hardin to keep a tight grip on his own emotions - but the darkly cloaked figure was nowhere to be found.

There was Sydney to take orders from now, he thought idly, but that was different. He did as Sydney said not because he had to, but because he wanted to, because Sydney was... what? His friend? He couldn't be sure. Righteous? Sydney had his flaws, but Hardin also knew that as distant and cold as the mage could be, he was not heartless. Even if he did make mistakes at times, he was doing the best he could with the responsibility he'd been given - and if his prophecies of the end of the world were to be believed, he'd been entrusted with more responsibility than most men could carry without breaking. In that light, the burning of a village was only a small thing, but he was so important that even the smallest tragedies surrounding his life were massive to most ordinary people, like those who had lived in Fentegel.

Then again, remembering the state he'd found Sydney in the night before Padric had died, Hardin supposed that those smallest tragedies were massive to him as well - he simply hid himself so thoroughly that most people would never even suspect. And perhaps, Hardin realized, that was why he was not among his followers now.

A moment's concentration, and Hardin felt the vivid pulse of Sydney's spiritual rhythm, centered somewhere in the village below. Focusing in on it, he found the mage standing alone in the midst of town, staring up at the skeletal remains of what had once been a large wooden building, stark and burnt black against the pale red and gold of the sunset. His hood was still raised as Hardin's astral self stepped closer to get a better look at him, and only the straight, tense line of his mouth was visible in the waning daylight.

Yes, Sydney was definitely brooding. Hardin remained invisibly at his side for a bit longer, then let the viewing dissolve. From his place atop the hill, he could identify the structure Sydney had been standing before, and he set out towards it - this time physically. He really didn't know why he bothered to try, honestly, but he hated seeing Sydney this way.

The mage remained silent and unmoving as Hardin approached him, simply continuing to gaze up from within the shadows of his dark hood at the charred skeleton that the soldiers' rampage had left, though Hardin was certain that Sydney knew he was there. After a few moments, the larger man broke the silence. "I suppose you foretold this as well."

"Yes, long ago," Sydney replied simply. "I did not know it would happen so soon."

His face hidden behind the hood, there was no sign of distress apparent, and Hardin hesitated before speaking again. "I know this torments you," he said bluntly. "I know that you care for those who die unfairly. You need not keep this shield of yours raised all the time - there are those who would comfort you, if only you would let them."

Sydney's shoulders rose in a slight shrug beneath the dark cloak. "My comfort comes from the gods."

"Does it, Sydney? As familiar as they may be to you, you are a man. You are no god."

Sydney half turned to him, a small, tired smile touching his lips. "Not to you, no."

"Then why is it that you insist upon being as ethereal and untouchable to me as they are?" Hardin asked, frustrated. "Regardless of your power, and even your immortality, you are still flesh and blood - you feel, as much as you would deny it..."

His mind already on their conversations the day of Padric's death, Hardin found his thoughts drifting to those fleeting moments when he and Sydney had been in each other's arms, his mouth and his hands coaxing forth the most purely physical responses from the mage. Yes, Sydney definitely was flesh and blood, all too human behind that facade of his, and Hardin impulsively reached out to him to prove it, pushing back the hood that hid him to reveal the shining blond hair and deceptively delicate features. He flinched away, startled, but Hardin ignored Sydney's surprise as he tenderly took the mage's weary face between his palms, trapping him so that he could neither escape nor deny. "You're flesh and blood, Sydney," Hardin repeated firmly, looking deep into Sydney's widening eyes. "And I know it."

The dark, colorless eyes glittered suddenly, as if something were awakening behind them, and Hardin realized a moment too late that he'd trapped himself as well. Gods, the thoughts that were pounding in his head suddenly...

Sydney gave a light chuckle, breaking the mood as he averted his eyes. "You certainly do," he said softly, removing himself gently from Hardin's grasp. "Now stop that. This is neither the time nor the place."

Hardin sighed, dropping his hands to his sides once more. "No, of course not." His uneven emotional fits and starts were causing him to behave like an idiot again. "I apologize... I should have said nothing at all, I suppose." It wasn't as if he should actually _care_ about Sydney, he thought with irritation. He had noticed a pattern to Sydney's behavior, and it was not unlike one of the mage's dances - he would approach, seeming to offer something deep, and then retreat before anything came of it.

"I need to leave the brethren for a time," Sydney said abruptly, jolting Hardin out of his thoughts.

The sudden change of topic caught him off guard, and it took a moment for the words to sink in. "Why?"

"This village was willing to support us, politically and materially," Sydney replied. "We have no normal means of income, as you know, and so we must work for our food... however, we obviously cannot work here. There are other villages not unlike this one, but many days journey away, and the cardinal's men likely have laid traps for us on every road in Valendia. Besides, if we are to support the survivors of this tragedy, we will not have enough rations remaining to reach any one of those villages - even if they haven't already been burned just as Fentegel was." He gave a slight sigh, bowing his head a bit. "I really should have thought it through more, but I did not believe they would move so quickly..."

His voice trailed off into thought, and Hardin shook his head firmly. "You already know more than any other man, and you do what you think is best. It isn't your fault that you did not know this."

A cynical smile curled Sydney's lips. "I know. However, it is my responsibility to protect and care for those who follow me, and now that we have no money and little food remaining..." He gave a light shrug. "I have little choice but to go to an old wealthy benefactor of ours, and request assistance. As much as it galls me that we should become a charity case, it is better than letting them starve."

"Ah." It made sense - showing up at the doorstep of some nobleman with a few dozen "heretics" in tow would not be a very wise thing to do, so of course Sydney must go alone. "So we shall secret ourselves somewhere until you return, then?"

Sydney shook his head. "Impossible. The remaining rations are not enough for everyone to live comfortably on, now that we have some refugees to support as well - even supplemented by what small game might be found in the area. And with the cardinal's men so zealously seeking us, remaining in a large group would simply make the brethren easy to spot; without my protection, I fear they would make easy prey. I intend to have everyone form smaller bands - three to four people together at most - and spread out among the smaller farming estates and villages nearby, seeking work if they can find it. If not, well..." He gave an ironic grin. "We have already been named rogues by the authorities, controlled as they are by the church; if we must steal to eat for a time, so be it. Given the choice between petty thievery and going hungry, there is little else we can do. Once I have spoken to our benefactor, I can find the scattered brethren again with ease, if they return to this area - I have a bond with all those who have sworn fealty to the Dark."

Hardin thought it over. "It seems a rather precarious plan," he commented. "Or is there something else to it that you have not told me?"

"No, you are right," Sydney admitted. "But we must move quickly, and our options are limited... it is the best I can come up with for now. Unless you have a better plan?"

Unfortunately for both of them, he did not, and he shook his head. "So then... how long will you be apart from us?"

"The business itself should not take long," Sydney replied. "No more than two or three days, I expect - but I will need to go nearly all the way back to Leá Monde. Travelling on my own is much faster than with the brethren, so perhaps twelve days, fifteen at the most. They should be able to avoid the templars by themselves for that long, if they are scattered."

The mage looked oddly anxious despite his words, and Hardin wished there was something he could do to help - even if not for Sydney's sake, then for the sake of his friends among the brethren, who had suffered so much already. "I'll do what I can to protect those who are with me, at least," he assured Sydney. "And if there is something more I can do..."

"Actually, Hardin," Sydney interjected quietly, "...I was hoping you might be persuaded to come with me."

"With you?" The suggestion somewhat startled Hardin, for he could think of no logical reasoning behind it. For all his slight build, Sydney could move as quickly as any among the brethren, and Hardin suspected he would only slow Sydney down on his journey. "Why?"

Sydney paused before answering. "Nothing overly difficult," he said at last. "I think that I may have need of you."

Hardin found the statement to be absurd - Sydney needed no protection, nor someone to watch by night, and Sydney alone was the one who should negotiate with this benefactor of his. Hardin had nothing to offer on such an excursion... unless Sydney knew something he had not told him. "Did you foresee something?" Hardin asked hesitantly.

Sydney shook his head, smiling. "You think too much, Hardin. I may be an oracle, but as you pointed out only a short time ago, I am still a man."

Hardin didn't understand exactly, but somehow the words touched him deeply. "Then I shall go with you," he agreed. "Whatever pleases you."

"I'm glad." Sydney's grateful smile seemed sincere enough, and for a moment Hardin thought the mage might actually show some kind of affection in the form of an embrace or perhaps even another kiss, from the way he leaned forward ever so slightly. The movement turned into a small shrug, though, and Sydney glanced off to the west, to the sun slipping below the horizon beyond the hills and heaps of charred timber. "Be sure to sleep well tonight, Hardin, for we must make haste. We'll leave at dawn and continue on into the night, for the cardinal's men will not be so likely to prowl after the sun goes down; that is when we will make the best time."

It was only later, when Hardin was readying for bed, that he realized Sydney once again had not addressed his concern. Between his own heated emotions and Sydney's sudden change of subject, the original reason he'd gone to talk with the mage had been forgotten. Ah well - if their journey was to last for a dozen days, and only a few of those spent with whoever Sydney's benefactor was, they would have plenty of time alone. Perhaps Sydney would be more likely to speak honestly if it were only the two of them.

Not that he wanted to pester the mage, he reminded himself firmly. He really shouldn't speak of the matter again - he probably shouldn't have said anything in the first place. If Sydney found his comfort in the gods rather than among mortal men, then that was his business.

It wouldn't have bothered Hardin at all, if he'd actually believed that Sydney was getting the comfort he needed. From the subtle tension in his face by day to his solitary tears at night, Hardin wasn't convinced at all.

* * *

Regardless of Sydney's advice, Hardin did not sleep as well as he would have hoped to, faced with a swift journey the following day. The residual smell of smoke from the nearby village reached his nose even in his sleep, tinging his already troubled dreams with the yellows and oranges of flame. Again he was in the small stone chamber behind the iron bars, slouching against the far wall with his arms wrapped around his knees. Deep within his own idle fantasies of escape and freedom, no longer entirely conscious of the ever-present cursing and clatter. Day and night meant nothing in prison, except that it determined which of the guards would be on duty - whether you would be ignored or abused for daring to speak to them, which was pointless anyway. With nothing else to occupy his time except anger and helpless concern for his brother, Hardin spent the majority of his time like this - daydreaming, half dozing, and slipping off into the oblivion of sleep whenever he could. It passed the time, and time was not something he wanted to remain aware of.

This day, however, something was unusual enough that he was gradually pulled back to his dismal reality. It took him a moment before he recognized the smell of smoke - not the vague, greasy smoke given off by the oiled torches set in the walls outside his cell, but the sharp, dusty scent of wood smoke. The realization jolted him fully awake, and his head jerked up to see that the dull stone of his cell was faintly reflecting a flickering light.

Though the prison was constructed of stone and metal for the most part, there were wooden support beams throughout the dungeon, running across the ceiling and up the walls outside the cells, and Hardin looked out through the bars to see that many of them had already been caught up in a great blaze. The others were catching quickly, raising the temperature so that it was nearly unbearable and filling the cells with smoke. The panicked cries of the other prisoners were drowned out in the crackling of the flames and the occasional crash as one of the support beams fell, taking a portion of the ceiling with it.

Coughing, Hardin covered his mouth and nose with his shirt, trying to filter out the smoke as well as he could. Certainly the guards would do something - the gods only knew how many people would die if they did not evacuate the prison immediately! Even if they were all felons, they did not deserve to suffocate and burn...

A futile thought, he realized, his heart sinking. To the guards, the men imprisoned here were no longer human beings, but creatures which could live or die with little consequence. They'd probably gotten out as soon as the blaze became unmanageable, and they were unlikely to return. All Hardin could do was flatten himself on the floor, trying to get below the thickest of the smoke, and pray that someone would come, or that the fire burned itself out before he and the others in the cells were overcome by smoke or roasted alive.

"Elabrin ti vamota, ext tarin eckra ti radiniata Tamulis-"

The strange words left Hardin's lips before he even realized he was murmuring them, and he suddenly stopped short. Where had that come from? He didn't even know what the words meant, though they had the sound of the brethren's chants, which he now knew were in a dialect of ancient Kildean - and he certainly could not speak that tongue!

Not that he had much time remaining to dwell on it; the dungeon he was held in was below ground, airtight except for the one narrow doorway which led to the upper levels of the prison, and with noplace to escape to, the smoke was growing thicker. Another support beam crashed to the floor just outside the iron bars, and the bricks and mortar it had kept in place fell as well, filling the already saturated air with dust. Gasping for breath and getting nothing for his trouble but lungs full of ash and smothering heat, Hardin closed his watering eyes, simply giving in to what was now inevitable. A solid wall of flame now danced just outside his cell; even if someone had come to the prisoners' aid, they could not reach his door to open it.

Even over the roaring of the fire and the crashing of more support beams, the faint jingling noise was perfectly audible, and Hardin half-heartedly opened his eyes to see what the unfamiliar noise might have been. They widened despite the abrasive dust and smoke that stung so painfully, when he saw the slender figure standing before him.

Sleek and smooth, her skin was as golden in the light of the flames as her many ornaments, the curves of her body not quite hidden by the translucent silks she wore. They swirled about her as she knelt gracefully before him, placing a single ringed finger under his chin to draw his face up to look at her. The firelight was reflected in her russet hair and in her dark green eyes as she spoke.

"Vyldar, palidas."

The words meant nothing to him, but her meaning was made clear through the motion of her hands. As she commanded, Hardin rose to his knees before her; he recognized the woman now. Standing again, she turned her back on him, setting the ornaments at her waist in motion, and the jingling sounds filled the air, drowning out the sounds of the fire. The red Rood on her back rippled in the heat, and the iron bars of the cell dissolved into nothingness at her touch. Heedless of the flames flaring up before her, she glanced back at Hardin with a coy smile, gesturing for him to follow as she walked forward through the fire and vanished.

Somehow, Hardin now found that it was not so hard to breathe as it had been, though the smoke still billowed and the heat still nearly overwhelmed him. He took a moment to pause, to stare after the woman in shock. Priestess or not, she was mad - he could not walk through a wall of solid flame!

The fire flared up before him as the blaze touched a fallen torch that had not yet been lit, and he backed away from the burst of heat. Expecting to feel the far wall of the cell behind him, he was startled when his back pressed against something much softer - something that jingled as he jostled it - and slender arms encircled with golden armlets reached forward to surround him.

_So then, you wish to remain here forever?_ Her words were not truly words, but ideas formed only within his mind, and yet they were tinged with cool laughter.

To suffocate helplessly or to burn by his own choice - those were his only options?

Having been surrounded by golden metal and golden flame only moments ago, the sudden darkness startled him as his eyes flew open. Hardin let out a deep breath, relaxing as the nightmare revealed itself. All was peaceful on the hillside despite the faint smell of smoke and soft crackling of the campfire off to his right, perfectly harmless despite their terrible influences on his dream. With a sigh, Hardin began to roll onto his side, hoping he would be able to get to sleep again quickly - but his breath caught in his throat at the sight of the campfire.

She was standing in the midst of it, the flames licking up around her translucent form. Over her shoulder, she gave Hardin another of the coy smiles, then whirled about playfully amidst the chiming of her golden ornaments.

Hardin bolted upright beneath his blankets, gasping for breath. He turned his face hesitantly to examine the campfire, but this time he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Even so, he stared intently at it for a time before letting himself relax, assuring himself that Sydney's tale of the woman and her disturbing manner of death had captivated his imagination - that was all.

But then, he had seen her shade just like that once before, during the ceremony at Leá Monde, and he was certain that he had not been dreaming then. The transition from dream to waking this time had been imperceptible, no more than a blink of his eyes... could he be certain that he'd still been asleep at all?

_You fool... even if it was no dream, it's not as if she's a demon,_ Hardin reminded himself irritably. _She was a woman. A powerful one - even more powerful than Sydney, most likely - but she was not a monster and she was not evil. She would certainly not harm anyone here, among those who honor her name._

Lying back down to sleep, Hardin nevertheless was unable to close his eyes, keeping them watchfully on the fire for many hours. The flames continued to dance before him, but the Lady did not join them.


	11. The Door that Stands Ajar

Hardin was grateful for the cloak that Sydney had asked one of the other brethren to loan him during their trip; the day of their departure dawned dark and grey, the clouds overhead threatening to unleash a storm at any moment. It was not ideal travelling weather by any stretch of the imagination, but it could not be helped - and perhaps the cardinal's men would be discontent, their heart not in their work, if they should chance to encounter one another. After a few words of encouragement and instructions to the brethren, it was time for Sydney and Hardin to set out.

Rather than taking the roads by which they had come, Sydney led Hardin north for a time, following the curves of the hills, and eventually entered a forest. The brush was not overly thick, but even in his own heavy cloak, Sydney moved through them easily, making little sound and leaving almost no sign of his passing. He had such swift grace that Hardin felt large and clumsy as he pushed through after him, though he'd been trained to move through such terrain with little effort during his days as a soldier.

It was a good thing, for Sydney had chosen a route that was not travelled often, from the look of it - avoiding roads and even well-beaten paths for the wilderness, and they were moving quickly across uneven ground and through untamed brush. It would not be permanent, Sydney assured him - it was only until it grew dark, and any soldiers placed on the roads would not spot them from a great distance. Hardin matched Sydney's pace easily, if not so gracefully, and they had gone far before the storm finally broke, in mid-afternoon.

Aside from that one assurance, Sydney said nothing as they travelled, entirely focused on plotting their course. With Hardin merely following, it left him plenty of time to ponder all that was on his heart. His thoughts mostly drifted to why Sydney had brought him along, for it was obvious that Sydney needed no help that he could offer, unlike the brethren who had gone their separate ways that morning. To his mind, he could surely have done more good if he had been left to protect a few of those others who had taken him in as their own. It was to them that his thoughts otherwise strayed, and with vague concern. He had little worry over Kermiak and Duncan, who had been sent off together with a few of the survivors from Fentegel, and Kirrienne's party included Branla, whose talent Hardin had witnessed firsthand. Those among the brethren that he was closest to were competent, and he had no doubt that they would take care of themselves and those with them without much difficulty. Even so, there were many that were not so powerful in either swordsmanship or sorcery. If they did not keep a low profile, they could very well be at the mercy of those who sought them.

As well, his mind drifted to the previous night's dream, but after much thought, he decided that it had to be merely a dream, and of no consequence. Even the last vision of Müllenkamp had most likely been only a dream, for although it had never happened to him before, he had heard of people dreaming that they'd awoken when they had not. Truly it was childish to be troubled by dreams, and he put it out of his mind as well as he could.

The rain continued to fall well into the night, when they came to the first road Hardin had seen since their parting with the brethren. Sydney said it was safe to travel them at such a late hour, and so they took an even faster pace, ignoring the water drenching them both. Their cloaks protected them from the worst of it, but the rain was heavy and a cold wind had arisen from the north, making the air unnaturally cool for spring. Thus when they finally stopped and found a suitable place to sleep, only a few hours before daybreak, Hardin was extremely glad that Sydney deemed it safe to build a fire.

A large evergreen tree some distance from the road, with many heavily needled branches hanging low to the ground, provided excellent shelter from the weather, especially when Hardin supplemented them with layers of fallen brush woven among them, as he'd been taught during scouting missions. The wood they found was all wet from the day's rain, and so it fell to Sydney to use his talents to light the fire, but before long, they were being warmed and dried by the small flame. A quick meal was made of the travelling rations they'd brought, and then they unrolled the bedrolls they'd brought, preparing to sleep until they resumed their journey in the following afternoon. Even so, they stayed seated beside the fire's warmth on a fallen log Hardin had found while looking for firewood, remaining in comfortable silence for a bit longer, both wordlessly agreeing that they did not want to put the fire out just yet. Having grown accustomed to Sydney's reticence of late, Hardin was somewhat surprised when the mage spoke.

"So, you dreamed of our Lady, did you?"

Sydney had not spoken to his unsaid words in such a long time that Hardin was startled by the question. "...Yes."

"Hmm..." His head resting on his hand, Sydney idly tapped a metal claw against his lips, deep in thought. "Very interesting."

That was not what Hardin wanted to hear. "It was only a dream, Sydney," he stated, hoping that it was the truth. "There is no meaning in the dreams of a normal man like myself."

"True enough," Sydney agreed, "but our Lady has been known to reveal herself in dreams before, to those she favors." He gave a wry smile. "And sometimes to those she does not. She can be a bit... mischievous. It is a part of her charm."

It was eerie, for Sydney spoke of the long-dead woman as if she were someone he was well-acquainted with. "But... it was certainly only a dream," Hardin protested, as much for his own sake as Sydney's. Was the mage implying that this ancient priestess might favor him... or that she did not? "It made little sense - only a variant of..." He halted in mid-sentence, unwilling to talk about his recurring nightmare. "...Of a dream I have had before. It is not so unusual, what with the smell of the burned village nearby and the stories you'd been filling my head with in the last week-"

Sydney abruptly looked very interested. "Well, there is one way to know for certain, isn't there?" he asked, leaning forward with his elbows resting upon his knees. Hardin drew back unconsciously at the sudden motion before he could stop himself; even in the dim light of the fire, Sydney's curious eyes were sharp, probing. "Tell me about this dream of yours, Hardin," the mage continued. "If it is a mere dream, I will know, and you need no longer be troubled by it. If not, perhaps the gods will grant me wisdom to divine a meaning."

As little as Hardin wanted to talk about it, Sydney's logic made sense, and so he reluctantly nodded. "There is not much to the telling, though. I... was back in the prison, and a fire broke out. Just when I thought for certain that I would either be overcome by the smoke or roast alive from the heat, she appeared, and told me to rise and follow her."

Sydney's eyebrows raised questioningly. "In our tongue?"

"Nay, she spoke gibberish, but her meaning was clear. Once I had gotten to my feet, she ... did something to the bars, and they vanished, and then she walked through the fire outside the cell and vanished as well, leaving me behind. I was... well, reluctant to walk into the flames, to say the least."

"A logical reaction," Sydney affirmed.

"Yes, and so I remained in the cell." Hardin was somewhat relieved that Sydney had understood his reaction, rather than berating him for his lack of faith or some such nonsense. "She reappeared behind me then, putting her arms around me, and asked if I wanted to remain there forever. I did not know what to answer... and then I was on the hillside with the brethren once more."

"You woke up?"

"I thought so, but when I turned to look at the campfire, I found she was still present, dancing about in the flames. It startled me so much that I sat up, and that was when I came awake."

"I see," Sydney murmured, his eyes narrowing to mere slits as he thought the story over. "Indeed, very interesting."

He did not elaborate, and Hardin began to feel a bit nervous. "...It was only a dream, Sydney... was it not?"

"I'm not sure," replied the mage. "Do you remember her exact words? The... 'gibberish' that she spoke?" Hardin shook his head, and the mage frowned thoughtfully. "Then would you permit me to do a bit of delving?" he asked. "I promise that it cannot hurt you, though I imagine you would find it very odd at first."

"Delving?" Hardin was unfamiliar with the term.

"Yes, it involves pulling forth memories of a time or place, and reawakening them - in essence, living through them again, but removed from yourself, as an observer," Sydney explained. "It is not a skill that I often have use for, but I must admit that you've sparked my curiosity."

Hardin didn't care for the sound of it, but seeing Sydney's reaction, he found that he was rather anxious to discern the truth behind his dream as well. "You can try it, I suppose," he agreed, "but I can't be sure that I would be able to make out her words even now."

"If they are indeed her native tongue, I will understand them," Sydney informed Hardin, giving him a reassuring smile as he leaned forward. "I will be at your side. Relax now, and let us watch."

Sydney's right hand rose towards Hardin, the metal claws gently touching his cheek, and then everything vanished in a flash of light.

Due to the thick smoke, it was dark inside the cell despite the flames that leapt up just outside, and Hardin instinctively held his breath before he realized that he felt no heat, and that the smoke did not sting his eyes. At his side stood Sydney, his appearance faint and nearly transparent, effused with a strange glow. Hardin saw the same in his own body when he lifted a hand to examine it; here within the memory, he and Sydney were no more than specters.

Looking down upon the helpless figure lying almost at his feet, coughing, he recognized himself just as he recognized his reflection in a mirror, though it was a bit disconcerting. His own voice came quietly to his ears, murmuring weakly. "Elabrin ti vamota, ext tarin eckra ti radiniata Tamulis..."

The rest of the dream had disturbed him so that he'd forgotten that strange slip of the tongue until he heard himself utter the words again. Next to him, Sydney tilted his head to the side suddenly, narrowing his eyes in thought as his lips silently repeated the last of the strange words. "...radiniata Tamulis..."

Hearing them again, Hardin realized that he recognized the last word from Sydney's lessons, though he could make no sense of the rest of the phrase. "Sydney," he began, but the mage shook his head and raised a metal claw to his lips, continuing to watch the dream unfold.

The jingling that signalled the priestess' arrival rung out, and Hardin watched as she knelt before his dream-self below. "Vyldar, palidas," her melodic voice told him, and the real Hardin turned to see Sydney's reaction. The mage's thin eyebrows raised in surprise, and he regarded the two figures before them with great interest. The words had obviously meant something to him, and Hardin frowned anxiously; so much for his hopes that it had been just an ordinary dream.

He and Sydney continued to watch silently as his dream-self rose to his knees, eventually getting to his feet before the priestess. The idle thought crossed Hardin's mind that it was almost comical that she had intimidated him so - he towered head and shoulders over her. Finally Sydney shook his head, as his Lady's arms enfolded Hardin from behind. "And she used the mindspeak to ask her question?"

"Or something akin to it," Hardin replied, growing steadily more uneasy. "It was not so much speech as it was ideas - not unlike the way dreamers often just... _know_ things in a dream."

"Hmm... that would be the way to do it."

"To do what?"

The scene before them abruptly changed to the hilltop above Fentegel as Hardin's dream of the prison vanished, and he turned to see the priestess whirling amidst the flames of the campfire. Sydney regarded her with faint puzzlement, and Hardin knew it was no use to deny it any longer. "This was not a dream, was it? She was there..."

"To be honest, I cannot be sure," Sydney said with a slight puzzled frown. There was a strange rushing sensation, similar to when Hardin returned to normal consciousness after scrying, and they were once again sitting on the log before the tiny campfire, cold and damp. "It would be strange of her to appear to you in such a way, and she did not visit me last night... though that might be because she knew I would be angry with her," he murmured as an afterthought.

"Why?"

Sydney shook his head. "It's... complicated. Anyhow, though I cannot be certain about the last vision, it seems likely that it was she in your dream."

"Seems likely?" Hardin repeated, dubious. "I saw the look on your face - you recognized her words, though I did not. She _was_ speaking Kildean, wasn't she?"

"Yes, she was. However, I'm not so sure you did not recognize the words yourself - seeing as you spoke in the same tongue only moments earlier - and that means that you could have dreamed them. But then, if you had, would she..." Sydney's puzzled frown grew deeper, and he rested his chin in his hands as he stared into their small fire. "Hmm."

Hardin paused; a dozen questions swirled in his head, and he was unsure what to ask first. "Sydney... why was I speaking Kildean?" he asked finally.

"You did not recognize the words, did you?"

"Only the last."

"I thought not." Sydney paused, seemingly considering what he was to say. "I believe this is not the first time your soul has allied itself with the Dark. The word Müllenkamp greeted you with, _palidas_... the closest word in our language would probably be 'warrior', but it is rather specific, and therefore not a word she would use towards just anyone. And you recognized the name Tamulis from our lessons, I suppose - the name of the Kildean god of fire; your words were the beginning of an ancient ritual prayer, asking for mercy."

Hardin caught Sydney's meaning immediately. "Reincarnation, then."

"Yes - those who serve the Dark are often given the option to return to this world in a new body, when the old has been destroyed," Sydney affirmed. "I myself have lived many lifetimes, she tells me, and I have always served her in some way; you could say I am fated."

His voice dropped a few tones at the last words, and Hardin thought that he did not seem pleased with the idea. Given his own distaste for the idea of fate, he was not particularly happy about this revelation either. "And I?"

"It would explain much, I suppose... but I could not say." A wry look upon his face, Sydney raised a questioning eyebrow at Hardin. "I could ask her for you, if you would like."

"...That's not necessary." If it was as with Sydney, and his whole life had been plotted out for him - even lives yet to be lived - Hardin knew he would go back to hating the gods just as he had before, no matter how reassuring their presence had seemed to him. If he was to serve them again and again, why could they not intervene at least a little, to make his servitude more tolerable?

"I thought not." Staring down into the fire, Sydney's wry grin changed to a rather cynical smile. "One life's trouble is enough for a man, is it not, Hardin? Sometimes more than enough."

Hardin nodded. If any former lives he'd lived had been as filled with hardship as this last, as curious as he was, he did not want to know about it.

"You know," Sydney said softly, the hesitancy in his voice causing Hardin to look up curiously. "...I have spent some time in prisons myself."

Hardin was surprised at the admission; he could not picture such a powerful and determined man as Sydney being held captive by anyone or anything.

"It was before I gained all of my current power, of course," Sydney continued, a distant look in his eyes as he continued to gaze into the fire. "When you live such a life as I have, filled with visions of important, world-altering events - even the end of this age - which no one wants to hear... it stirs many passions, provokes varied reactions in mankind." He shook his head slowly, a slight smile upon his lips as he closed his eyes in reminiscence. "It was many years ago, and not for a great deal of time - only a few days. Of course," he added quickly, waving a hand through the air gracefully, as if brushing the unpleasant memories away, "since that time I have been within the walls of a few others, not as a prisoner but as a liberator, for there have been times that a follower of mine was captured by the king's men, or the cardinal's. But though I've only the one real experience with the sort of prison that shattered you so, I'm well acquainted with another kind. Since I've grown strong enough in the Dark that no manmade prison - nor death itself - could hold me, I've been held in a more intangible sort. My captor is none but the future itself... the future I have seen."

He paused then, and not knowing what to say, Hardin simply nodded, letting Sydney know that he was listening. "I am not fond of either sort of prison," the mage said after a time. "Especially not when good men are held within. But there is a safety of sorts, there - you know what to expect, and you are provided for, albeit sparsely. There is no effort to be made, no risks to be taken... though life may not be pleasant, at least it goes on without difficulty."

Again he hesitated, and looked up at Hardin. "If you were given the choice in the dream, Hardin," he asked quietly, "if you were forced to choose between suffocating helplessly in the cell or burning in the fire, which would you choose?"

It was obvious that Sydney was not speaking only of the situation that had arisen in his dream, and Hardin's answer came readily to his lips after only a moment's thought. "I believe I'm burning at this very moment," he replied gravely. "We must have a choice, or there is no point to our lives, no matter how many we may live."

Sydney nodded slightly, meeting Hardin's eyes. "I have always chosen to burn as well."

A sudden glint of hunger in Sydney's eyes caused Hardin to catch his breath, as he saw that the words were loaded with more meaning than he had thought. Quickly he reconsidered his initial response to them; he'd been about to reach out to the mage, to touch him comfortingly, but indeed... if Sydney burned, then Hardin knew he had a habit of being little more than dry tinder, able to be ignited by a mere touch.

But would it be so bad, really? They were alone now, only the two of them, and they did not intend to travel further until dusk the following day - what did it matter how the hours were spent until that time? It was really only a question of whether or not it was what they wanted... what _he_ wanted, for Sydney had already made his desires abundantly clear. As for himself, he hadn't thought much on the matter - he hadn't the slightest idea how far would be too far for him.

Examining Sydney's face, trying to find his answers, Hardin found that the mage's mind did not truly seem to be on that matter at all. He appeared worried more than anything - almost a bit frightened, though Hardin couldn't think why he should be.

"I would not willingly send you from one prison to another, Hardin," Sydney murmured, the anxiety in his face growing stronger. "The path I walk is no easy one, and you have not yet spoken any vows. You could leave us, and be free..."

After a moment, Hardin thought he understood, and he gave Sydney a slight smile. "I _am_ free, Sydney."

The words did nothing to ease Sydney's mind, it seemed; if anything, the mage's face grew more frustrated and anxious, and Hardin wondered if he'd misread Sydney's meaning. He again examined his options, wondering if he was willing to take the chance, to simply reach out and touch him, regardless of where it might lead them.

_Why do you hesitate, idiot?_ he berated himself. _If it happens, it happens. It's what he's wanted all along, and it seems as though you wanted it too, after all. Why can't you just do what feels natural? The gods know he could use some reassurance after the last few days - or at the very least, some distraction. And this time, we both are in our right minds - neither of us drunk, or half-mad..._

Hardin's internal argument was cut off abruptly as his hand reached out as if by its own volition, drawn by the need to soothe away the distress apparent in Sydney's expression. Calloused fingers rested upon thick wool, feeling the smooth firmness of Sydney's back beneath, and Hardin braced himself for whatever might come next.

Instead, Sydney turned away. "I suppose it's about time we put the fire out."

It took a moment for Hardin for realize that Sydney was referring to their small campfire - not until the mage knelt before it, extinguishing the meager flame with a softly murmured word. Darkness settled over them, hidden as they were beneath the thick boughs and needles of the evergreen, and through the noise of the falling rain outside, Hardin could hear Sydney's movements a short distance away, the rustling of his blankets as he pulled them back to lie down. "Good night, Hardin."

Stifling a sigh that could have been either relief or disappointment, Hardin did likewise. "Yes... good night."

* * *

It was still raining a few days later, when they arrived at their destination; this was why this area had been named the Graylands, Sydney told him. Though the rain would stop from time to time, and sometimes the sun would even make an appearance, for much of the year the land was indeed grey. Even the deep green of the new leaves upon the trees seemed washed out in the bleak light that managed to fight its way through the clouds.

There had not been much further to go at dawn that day, and so they had continued on instead of making camp at their usual time, and once more took to travelling off the roads as they had when they'd first set out. Coming clear of the trees and thin brush in the mid-morning hours, Hardin recognized the manor before them immediately, but it took a moment for him to place it. It had been many years since he had been inside the walls that surrounded the inner courts and buildings, and at first he could scarcely believe it. "Your mysterious benefactor is Duke Aldous Byron Bardorba?"

Sydney smirked through the raindrops at his skeptical tone. "Surprised, are you?"

"I expected someone less... important." Duke Bardorba was one of the elders of Parliament, coming from an old family with great holdings - and few wielded more power than he besides the king himself. Hardin had come here once or twice with his father during his childhood; he was expected to be the heir to his family's minor holdings, and so had been presented to many of the higher nobles as such. Recalling such meetings, Hardin momentarily worried that this might cause problems - he was a wanted man, after all, and if the duke should recognize him, place a name to his face... But then, the duke had not seen him for a dozen years at the least, he reminded himself.

"You expected some minor noble with a grudge against the monarchy," Sydney commented lightly as they approached the gates. "But no, the duke has been a supporter of my faith for many years - even long before I was born. The teachings of Müllenkamp have been passed down among the Bardorba family for many centuries."

"So, then..." Hardin was mystified, for this information was at odds with what he had heard of the man. "...is he one of your followers in secret?"

A short, cynical laugh was his response. "Duke Bardorba, following such a rogue as I?" Sydney asked, shaking his cowled head. "Not likely, Hardin. Every man's beliefs create a religion unique to himself, and though the duke believes in the same gods as I, he keeps his faith in his own way."

"I had heard that his wife was a prominent figure in the church of Iocus," Hardin muttered, lowering his voice as they neared the walls. Despite the downpour, an unhappy-looking sentry was posted behind the portcullis at the gate, and through the iron bars, Hardin could see another few men approaching. Likely someone had spotted them exiting the woods and sent out a few more servants to greet them and escort them inside - or to aid the lone sentry in driving them away if they were not welcome.

"Oh, she is," Sydney murmured, a note of disgust in his voice.

They were too close to the sentry for him to elaborate, however, and the man called to them over the din of the rain. "Who goes there, and what business have you with Duke Bardorba?"

By way of reply, Sydney raised a hand and pulled the hood of his cloak back despite the chill and the rain, revealing his face. The man froze at the sight of him. "Ah... you," he muttered, not quite hiding his distaste. The others with him did not seem particularly happy with their visitor's identity either, and Hardin thought he even spotted one nervously making the sign of the Rood. "The duke is not here now - he and the Duchess are gone on a holiday to another of his holdings."

Their reaction didn't seem to faze Sydney at all. "We can wait."

After a moment's hesitation, the men inside began to turn the wheel that raised the portcullis, allowing Sydney and Hardin entrance. No one offered to show them inside, but stayed some distance off as Sydney led Hardin to the manor's front door. "Not to doubt your judgment, Sydney," Hardin commented, his voice lowered so that the servants would not hear, "but that lot looks as though they'd turn us over to the cardinal's men without a second thought."

"They would," Sydney agreed, "had they not pledged loyalty to the duke. Though their beliefs are at odds with mine, their honor demands that they obey him, regardless of their thoughts on the matter. He informed them long ago that I am welcome here, and so they will not trouble us. The Duchess may have chosen servants who are of her own flock," he commented with a smirk, "but it is the duke to whom they are sworn. It is rather frustrating for her, I imagine, but quite fortunate for us."

Those in the hall when they entered were more hospitable, even if they seemed no more pleased than those who had met them at the gate, and considerably startled as well. "Ah... Sydney," a moustached retainer greeted him nervously. A few maids passing by stopped and glanced at them in surprise, then hurried on their way after a quick nod of acknowledgement. "The duke has taken leave for a time, I'm afraid-"

"So I hear," Sydney said dryly.

"May I assume, then, that you will be staying here until he returns?"

"You may."

"I see..." The retainer wiped his brow, then nodded to himself. "Well then, I suppose you and your... friend, here, shall be staying in your usual suite. This is rather unexpected, so the rooms are not ready... I'll have someone make the beds - and shall I have hot baths drawn for you both?"

"Yes, thank you - that would be appreciated. We've come quite a long way, and the weather has not been favorable for travelling." He glanced up at Hardin, and gave him a faint smile. The smile looked all wrong to Hardin, though - too tight, and his eyes showed nothing of it. "It will be good to be warm and clean again at last, won't it?"

"Indeed." Regardless of his concerns, Hardin found the idea of a hot bath very appealing after the chill and the mud of the road.

"I'll make it so, then," the retainer affirmed, bobbing his head. "You know the way, Sydney, so I shall excuse myself to make ready. Fortunately your wait will not be a long one; the duke is scheduled to return tomorrow evening." The retainer excused himself with a hasty bow, and hurried off down a hallway.

Hardin looked after him, mildly amused at the effect Sydney had on the servants. "He meant fortunately for himself, no doubt."

Sydney didn't so much as chuckle, even the vague smile he'd held earlier having vanished. "For all of us," he murmured.

Hardin's amusement vanished as well; Sydney usually enjoyed making people squirm. He must have been quite troubled, to not take advantage of this opportunity. "There's nothing to be done about it," he pointed out, hoping to reassure him. "It isn't much of a delay, at any rate - the brethren can take care of themselves, so what does another day matter?"

Sydney gave no answer, but started off down one of the corridors silently. Somewhat puzzled, Hardin had no choice but to follow.

The rooms that comprised Sydney's usual suite were not the largest or the finest that the duke had to offer, but still far more luxurious than their accomodations at Leá Monde. Composed of smoothly carved stone and polished wood, they were furnished with thick draperies, gilded candlesticks, and fine furniture; one heavy wooden door even opened onto a small balcony. Despite the pristine luxury, Hardin found that there was a strangely comfortable feeling about these rooms, and he found himself relaxing a bit. Though he'd never had surroundings so lush even in his earliest childhood, there was a warm, welcoming air about them somehow - perhaps because Sydney was apparently so familiar with them. Without pause, the mage sat down upon one of the thick mattresses on the two unmade beds, which lay beyond a wide archway leading from the sitting room that opened into the rest of the rooms of the suite. Even as drenched as he was, he began to remove his cloak and boots, taking no notice of the water dripping upon the mattress as he did so. After a moment's hesitation, Hardin sat down on the bed on the other side of the chamber and began to remove his outer garments likewise; if it was acceptable for Sydney, then he supposed it was all right.

The two maids who came almost immediately to draw the baths and make the beds said nothing about Sydney's discarded, dripping cloak upon the floor. They regarded him with faint curiosity, and after Sydney had wordlessly vanished into the bath, leaving Hardin to wait behind until he had finished - he had not even bothered to ask, Hardin thought with vague annoyance, even if he would have told Sydney to go first anyhow - they shot him a few strange looks as well. The barely restrained interest in the younger maid's face was so severe, that Hardin finally gave up pretending not to notice. "Is there something bothering you?"

"Oh! No. Not at all," she exclaimed quickly, turning back to her task of making Sydney's bed. She glanced over her shoulder at Hardin once more, though, and he caught a glimpse of a faint blush upon her cheeks. This baffled Hardin - with the reaction they'd gotten thus far from the servants, she certainly could not have taken a liking to him, could she?

Seeing that he'd obviously noticed her staring, her blush deepened. "Excuse me," she murmured. "I just... well, you don't look like..."

"A cultist." Hardin said bluntly, realizing the source of her curiosity. Her eyes widened at the honest admission, but there was no point in skirting the issue when it was so obvious. Besides, their fears were so unfounded that he felt pity for them more than he felt insulted. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm no sorcerer."

"Ah, no... I meant-"

"I'm sure he knows you meant no offense," the older maid cut in, giving her a warning look before she turned back to Hardin. "There are towels and robes within the inner chambers, and more than one bath, so you may go any time. While you are gone, we will make your bed."

There was an expression of disapproval not quite hidden behind the cold politeness on the older maid's face, contrasting sharply with the curiosity of the younger, but Hardin simply nodded politely and stood to go. "Thank you."

There were woven screens of thin fiber surrounding the two baths to provide privacy and when Hardin arrived, he could hear the faint sound of moving water behind the one that was closed. Sydney must have heard the door open, but he said nothing as Hardin went to the other bath and began to strip himself of his garments.

Once Hardin had washed, he simply lay back in the warm water that covered him to his neck, watching the faint trails of steam rising around him. The warmth soothed his weary muscles, penetrating even the chill that seemed to have lodged in his bones during their journey, and he closed his eyes, letting himself relax. He could not recall when he'd last been so utterly comfortable, despite their somewhat unfriendly welcome, and he let his mind drift with the water that surrounded him.

Not a sound had come from Sydney's direction ever since he'd entered, and Hardin thought that was odd. He'd fully expected some sort of comment - and surely designed to antagonize him - about the fact that he was undressing in Sydney's presence. The Sydney he'd come to know had far too wicked a sense of humor to let such an opportunity pass unnoticed, and yet he'd said nothing. Not to mention, the simple fact that he'd closed the screen around his bath was unusually modest for him, considering how he liked to tempt and tease. He seemed to be in one of his distant moods again - or rather, still, for Sydney had barely said two words to him since the first night of their journey, when by the fireside the mage had actually shown some signs of being human - by his own choice, for a change.

Again with the dance of approach and withdrawal, Hardin thought with a sigh, and he wondered once more why Sydney had bothered to bring him along. At least he'd managed to get plenty of peace and quiet, and possibly more rest than the brethren, who would have had to be on their guard constantly without Sydney and his warding spells. It seemed wrong that he and Sydney should be enjoying this luxury when their companions were in such poverty and danger, but as he stifled a yawn, he decided he could handle that mild guilt for a hot bath and a soft bed. He and Sydney had been on their feet since the previous evening, and they were accustomed now to stopping at dawn to sleep. Though Sydney never seemed to show any signs of weariness no matter how little sleep he got, Hardin was exhausted, and he knew Sydney must be as well.

The next thing he knew, he was startled by a faint splashing sound, and glanced around in surprise. After a moment, the disorientation passed, and he realized that the warm water must have relaxed him a bit too much - he'd dozed off while still in the bath. Not much time could have passed, though, for he recognized the sounds beyond the screen as the results of Sydney leaving his own bath. Soft, familiar footsteps passed through the room not much later, and the door closed behind the mage, leaving Hardin alone in silence. Best that he get out as well, he thought with a yawn - however long he'd been dozing in there, the water was growing tepid.

After toweling himself off, he returned to the front rooms of the suite and found a fire already burning in the hearth, taking the edge off the chill that was ever present in large stone buildings such as the manor. Between his relaxed state, his weariness from the previous day's travel, and the slight chill in the air touching his still-damp hair and skin, the thought of simply climbing between the sheets and wrapping himself in the thick blankets was nearly irresistable. He had more important things to think about, however; he'd already discovered that Sydney was nowhere in their suite, and he found this curious. Besides, he had been hoping to ask a few questions about the situation here in the duke's manor - he did not want to do anything that might be offensive towards their hosts, particularly when the servants had only accepted them as guests grudgingly. Though Sydney had claimed they had sworn to obey the duke unwaveringly, Hardin had seen enough of human nature to know that not everyone's oaths could be trusted, and he did not want to wake up the next morning with a templar's halberd to his throat.

As tired as he was, he honed on Sydney's familiar aura with the Sight, and perhaps unsurprisingly found him in a room that appeared to be a library or study, his metal limbs all but concealed in a thick white robe he'd left unfastened, simply draped over his shoulders. The walls were lined with bookshelves that reached to the ceiling, and each was filled with tomes of all sizes and colors. Sydney's eyes passed over them slowly, taking in the names on the bindings, and after a time selected a thick, worn volume - the Zodiac Brave Story, Hardin saw upon closer examination. He let the viewing slip away as Sydney took his choice to a desk and chair in the corner; apparently Sydney was not researching, if he was simply reading ancient legends, and Hardin supposed it was all right to interrupt him.

The Sight guided him through the unfamiliar halls, past servants who either pretended not to see him or bobbed their head nervously and stepped aside as he passed, giving him a wider berth - apparently word of the unusual visitors had spread quickly through the manor - and he easily found the library. It was more impressive than he had first thought, for it was comprised of more than one room that was just as filled with books as the one he'd scryed upon, and most of them were larger besides. As Hardin entered the room he'd seen earlier, Sydney glanced up briefly from his reading and gave him a nod. "What is it?"

Hardin frowned at the words, for it was a rather cold greeting for Sydney even in his more irritable moods. "Are you busy, Sydney? There are a few things I'd like to know, about the duke and his family and servants..."

"I can assure you we will be safe here," Sydney told him flatly, "if that is what you were wondering. Though the heirarchy of Iocus' religion is filled with hypocrites, the majority of the common believers are earnest. They speak the truth and keep their oaths, for to them Iocus is a deified saint, not a dead man. Thus they believe oaths sworn to him to have meaning, and they therefore keep them faithfully. The disciples of Iocus are not all bad - it is those who knowingly spread a false gospel and exploit the simple faith of the people for their own ambition that I take issue with."

Hardin nodded. "I suppose that's a fair assessment," he agreed. "If you say it is so, then I will trust you. But also I was curious about how this came to pass," he added, cautiously looking over the adjacent rooms with the Sight to see if any wary servants were eavesdropping. He saw no one, though, and so proceeded. "You said that the Duchess is indeed of the Iocus faith, as I'd heard - does she know of her husband's beliefs? Do his servants?"

"They know that I am to be allowed to stay even when the duke is not here," Sydney replied, and impatience was audible in his voice even though he didn't look up from his reading. "Does that not make the answer to your question rather obvious?"

Hardin was rather taken aback by the overtones of irritation in Sydney's voice - he hadn't said anything out of line, had he? "Not necessarily," he pointed out. "I haven't the slightest idea what the history is between the two of you, if he is not a follower of yours as you said earlier. Why would he support you and the brethren anyway?"

"That is the business of Duke Bardorba and myself." As the mage raised his head to regard Hardin, there was an unmistakable look of annoyance in his eyes. "You look tired, Hardin - why not go back to our rooms and sleep?"

Hardin was growing somewhat annoyed himself - considering his snippy attitude, Sydney was the one who sounded like a cranky toddler in need of a nap. The mage suddenly shot Hardin a glare so vicious that he had to force himself not to stumble backwards; doubtless Sydney had heard that idle thought, and it certainly hadn't improved his mood.

"A... all right, Sydney," Hardin conceded after a moment's thought, holding up a hand in surrender. Whatever was bothering Sydney, apparently he was doing nothing but bothering him all the more, and no matter how confusing Sydney could be, that was not what he wanted to do. "I'm sorry to trouble you."

Sydney nodded in acknowledgement, and seeing that Hardin had turned to leave, he went back to his reading. Hardin, however, paused just outside the door, then looked back at the mage. For once he looked almost like an ordinary man, leaning on one robed elbow upon the desk as he gazed down at the words on the pages with a slight frown on his face.

"...Sydney."

He looked up impatiently at the sound of his name, and the intensity of his eyes ruined the illusion of normalcy. Hardin ignored it in his determination. "Don't forget that you are the one who suggested I come with you," he reminded the mage. "Whatever your purpose was in doing so - and I still haven't the slightest idea what that might be - I can offer you little assistance when I don't understand the situation, and less if you simply send me away when I ask."

Sydney regarded him for a moment, then returned to his reading once more. Hardin was becoming quite tired of being ignored, and so returned to their suite as Sydney had suggested. Regardless of Sydney's rudeness, the truth was that he really _was_ tired, and some sleep would do him much good.

* * *

Wherever they were, there was almost no light to illuminate the slender figure that lay beside him, little more than a faint silhouette, but there was a faint, almost familiar jingling noise that he knew he should recognize.

_...Who...?_

The slim figure sat upright, and though he still could not make out the features of his mysterious visitor, the chiming of gold against gold finally found its place in Hardin's mind, telling him who it was that now sat atop him, and he froze at the realization. As anxious as this should have made him, he could not bring himself to be entirely afraid, for long, slender legs straddled his, and soft lips nuzzled against his shoulder, slowly moving across to nibble at his neck playfully.

_She...? What would she want with me?_

The answer would have been rather obvious, were it anyone else, but Hardin could not bring himself to believe it. The slim figure straightened again, and he flinched as he felt the touch of supple fingers skillfully unbuckling the belt at his waist, then tugging at his shirt, pulling it over his head effortlessly. As the slim figure leaned forward again, the soft lips kissed across his stomach and downward, and silken veils brushed against his sides. He made a valiant effort to remain calm and still beneath the rather sensual onslaught, but between his fear and his arousal, both growing stronger with each touch, it was growing more difficult by the second.

_This... can't be right. She couldn't... oh, gods - she is!_

Unbidden, a groan burst from Hardin's throat as the fingers began busying themselves in a very enjoyable manner. In spite of himself, pleasure won out over anxiety for control of his body, and he was unable to keep himself from reaching up to take hold of the slender waist, pulling the gently curved hips into alignment with his own. Running his fingers along the inside of one sleek thigh, he felt more than saw the figure move atop him, back arching and hips pressing against his as he found the catch that would release the heavily ornamented belt. Placing the other arm around the smooth-skinned back, he drew the slender frame down to lie atop him, stroking the soft hair that brushed his shoulder. Soft, warm lips found his own, and he closed his eyes in ecstasy. When the kiss ended, he dared to open them again, and caught his breath as a trace of light glinted in the eyes.

The eyes were not the emerald green he'd expected to see, but completely colorless, piercing his very soul with the intensity they held as they darkened with ruthless passion into a deep grey, framed by wayward strands of pale hair.

His own eyes opened with a start to take in the sight of the suite in Duke Bardorba's manor, and he slowly came to the realization he'd been dreaming. Still half-asleep, he pressed his palm against his forehead wearily, trying to banish the sight of those eyes, the memory of skin against skin.

After a few moments' confusion, he realized that someone was knocking on the door of their suite. Looking around, he did not see any sign that Sydney had come back, but it wouldn't be Sydney at the door; he hadn't locked himself in, and the knock sounded rather hesitant.

With a yawn, he sat up, and cleared his throat. "Yes...?"

The door opened, and a young servant girl poked her head in timidly. "I'm sorry, milord, if I woke you... Lord Sydney told us that you should be awakened for dinner."

A glance at the window told him that it was indeed likely early evening, though it was difficult to tell through the clouds. "Ah... yes. Dinner." It was a good idea, for he and Sydney had been living on travelling rations for several days now, and at this point he could use more nourishing food at least as much as he needed rest.

"The dining room isn't very hard to find," she murmured hurriedly, "just through the front hall, which you probably remember is at the bottom of the stairs... but if you like, I can wait for you to dress, and show you the way."

That wasn't something she looked forward to, quite obviously, and Hardin shook his head. "I'll be able to manage fine, I'm certain. Thank you." After a hasty curtsy, the girl vanished as quickly as her legs could take her. By the gods, the poor girl looked as though she thought he'd eat her alive for waking him - what kind of idiot rumors had she heard about Sydney's followers?

No matter, Hardin thought, running a hand over his weary face as he stifled another yawn. They would not be staying long, and he would not bother them any more than he had to. Now, to dress for dinner... but first, he thought sheepishly, remembering the dream the girl had awakened him from, he could use a few minutes out on the balcony. A few minutes standing in the nice, _cold_ rain. At least it had not been another visitation, he thought as he let the falling water cool and wake him - as unnerving as the dream had been, it had not been particularly unusual - and at least it had not been the prison again

After having dressed, he found the dining room easily, but at first was not certain he was in the right place. A few servants were bustling about in the kitchen, but the dining room itself was empty, and Sydney was nowhere in sight. Seeing his curious glances around the room, one of the women in the kitchen came out to greet him with a kind smile. "Looking for Sydney, I suppose?"

"Yes..." The short, somewhat plump woman was the only servant he'd encountered thus far that hadn't cringed, glared, or been stiffly formal to him since his arrival, and it surprised him a bit.

"Ah, he rarely takes his meals in the dining room during his stays here," the woman told him. "Since you're looking for him here, I suppose he wasn't in your rooms when you left, no?"

Hardin shook his head, and the woman clicked her tongue. "I suppose he's in the library, then - I'll have someone take him something."

Apparently Hardin's puzzlement showed on his face, for the woman smiled. "You were not expecting someone here to fuss over your friend, were you?" She leaned a little closer to Hardin, lowering her voice to speak to him confidentially. "Though Lady Ellemir has filled the duke's holdings with servants of her own choosing, there are a few remaining who have been in his service for longer than she has even known him - the duke would not part with his best cook, for instance," she explained with a meaningful nod, "and most of us do not share their prejudices. Sydney has come to us many times before, and I have always thought him to be a fine young man, regardless of his beliefs or whom he chooses to bed."

Well, that explained why the maid had been staring at him while making their beds. Suddenly he had to fight off a blush as deep as the maid's had been - was _that_ what they all thought he was?

Seeing Hardin's sudden discomfort, the cook winked at him. "Don't worry, I do not intend to ask or jump to any conclusions - it's none of my concern. No concern of anyone else's, either, so you just ignore them."

"I shall try," Hardin agreed. At least someone in this place had some common sense, thank the gods.

"Very good, lad - very good." She was fussing as if she was his or Sydney's mother, but already Hardin felt much more at ease than he had only moments previous, and he allowed himself to let his guard down. "I'm afraid we don't have anything special to serve you and Sydney as our guests here, but we've done what we could..."

"What they could" was more than enough, Hardin quickly discovered - the meal they laid out before him wasn't lacking for quality or quantity. Even if it was not the choicest cuts of meat, and it was not the best season for vegetables, the food was still fresh and hot and far beyond what he and Sydney had been dining on, and even more so than the brethren's usual meals.

As he dined, Hardin took a moment to scrye upon Sydney, to see if he too was enjoying his dinner, wherever he might be. As the cook had suspected, he was still in the library, and someone had indeed taken some food to him. It sat untouched, however, as Sydney continued his reading.

Alone in their suite after dinner, Hardin was visited twice by servants that evening - once a maid asking if they had blankets enough, and once by a young man who brought more firewood, for the night was cool. Both times, Hardin expected it to be Sydney returning, but he apparently continued his reading until well after dark, and finally Hardin gave in to his body's urgings and went to bed; Sydney would sleep when he was tired enough, he supposed.

He had no idea how late it was when he was finally awakened by the sound of the door, and opened his eyes to find Sydney returning at last. Even by the relatively dim light of the fire, partially blocked by a screen so that it would warm without keeping them awake, Hardin could make out his troubled expression, the dark shadows under his eyes betraying his weariness as the mage sat down upon the bed, beginning to undress. "Sydney, is everything well?" he asked softly.

The mage started at the sound of his voice, pausing halfway through removing the robe he'd been wearing. "Everything is fine, Hardin," he told him after a moment. "Go back to sleep."

Still dubious, Hardin hesitated for a few moments longer, until Sydney's eyes flashed with sudden anger. "Go to sleep, Hardin," he repeated, his soft voice suddenly turning harsh. "Or does it please you so much to watch me undress? Shall I do a little dance for you as well, as a common whore might do?"

Hardin's eyes narrowed. "What is _wrong_ with you?" he asked incredulously.

Sydney remained silent in his anger, and Hardin tried to make his sleep-fogged mind focus, tried to think what brought on such an outburst. It dawned on him after a moment, what the cook had said about the other servants' impressions of Sydney, and what they must have assumed of him - no wonder Sydney was a bit sensitive about such a thing at the moment. "Forgive me, Sydney," he murmured. "You know that is not how I think of you, not at all." Despite the dream, despite the moments that had passed between them, desire was not among the first emotions that came to mind when he thought of Sydney; at the moment, concern blocked it out entirely.

Even so, he obediently turned onto his side, facing the wall to give the mage the privacy he asked, and tried to fall asleep once more. As for the soft, melancholy sigh he heard from the other bed, Hardin pretended that he did not hear it. Surely they would both feel more themselves in the morning.


	12. The Walls That Once Were High

Hardin woke early the next morning, feeling almost fully refreshed, thanks to a good night's sleep in a soft, warm bed - dreamless, for once, which was a vast relief. Sydney was gone already, though it was barely dawn, and Hardin frowned thoughtfully. He'd had no sleep at all the day before, and Hardin knew perfectly well that he wasn't doing anything urgent. Indeed, another viewing showed him that Sydney had gone back to the desk in the library, and was reading by candlelight.

With his head clearer, though, Hardin began to take notice of a few of the smaller details he'd not noticed the day before. Sydney looked exhausted; the previous night's dark circles under his eyes had not gone away, and he was staring down at the book with a look of frustration on his face, as if it angered him. And by Hardin's estimation, Sydney could not have been past the fiftieth page, though he'd been reading almost since their arrival the previous morning, and he knew for a fact that Sydney was a quick reader. Sydney's concentration was not on the book at all, regardless of how intently he stared at it; this observation was confirmed as Hardin continued to watch him, for Sydney's eyes did not appear to be moving across the page at all, and as long as Hardin watched, he did not turn to the next.

Something was definitely on Sydney's mind, and despite the cold reception he'd received the day before, Hardin decided to try again to talk to him. The mage wasn't eating, he wasn't sleeping, and the things they'd been through in the last ten days were enough to drive any man to the brink of emotional and physical collapse. Immortal or not, Hardin wasn't sure how long Sydney could go on like this.

By the time Hardin arrived in the library, Sydney had given up any pretense of reading and simply rested his chin in one hand, staring blankly off into space. He didn't even seem to notice Hardin's approach until the larger man spoke. "Sydney, what's wrong?" he asked bluntly. "And don't tell me nothing is wrong."

Sydney didn't say anything of the sort, as he lowered his head with a sigh. "Hardin," he said softly, "please... just leave me alone."

Whatever Hardin had been expecting, it was not that, and the mild request puzzled him. Even so, he nodded; whatever might draw Sydney out of this dark mood. "All right... if that is what you want. But Sydney... if you ever do decide you'd like to talk..."

"I will not," Sydney murmured wearily, "but thank you." Though this time it was not rude, the words were still a dismissal, and so Hardin obeyed.

The breakfast served not much later was delicious enough, but it did nothing to raise Hardin's spirits, concerned as he was. Without Sydney's guidance, he did not know where he was or was not allowed to go within the walls of the duke's manor, or what there might be to do, and therefore he chose to remain in their suite alone as the day advanced. Ironic, he thought, that he'd gone from withering away slowly within a crude prison cell to being trapped, for all intents and purposes, within the most luxurious surroundings he'd ever found himself in. Having no way to distract himself from the worries that preoccupied him, and the rain preventing him from remaining out on the balcony where he might feel less claustrophobic, Hardin simply lay on his back on his bed, allowing the Sight to take him where it would; if only this talent had been available to him while he'd been in prison.

More often than not, the Sight led him to Sydney, and Hardin was silently and invisibly at his side as the mage closed the book that lay before him, irritably giving up on the pretense of reading. Instead, he took to prowling the halls aimlessly, pausing to regard a painting hung in a hallway or the view from a window for a few moments here and there. Never did any emotion touch his face, no matter how beautiful Hardin found the things that lay before him, and he moved on restlessly, though he didn't seem to have any particular destination in mind.

After one such pause, Sydney set out with more purpose, and Hardin recognized the hall he walked as the one leading to their rooms. He broke off the viewing instinctively, somewhat guilty about his spying, and soon the door opened.

"The duke and duchess are drawing near; we should be ready to greet them upon their arrival."

Hardin rolled to a sitting position as Sydney entered and began going through the pile of clothing Hardin had found draped across a chair when he'd awakened that morning. Holding up a shirt of green silk, he paused to consider it for a moment before shaking his head and tossing it onto the bed. "It is more fortunate than I'd have thought that I did not allow you to buy peasant garb those months ago - when one is in the company of such nobility, one must look suitable, and I'm not sure that any of the Bardorbas' servants would have anything in the proper size."

That must have been where Sydney had gotten the clothing he was now rummaging through, for Hardin had never seen him wear anything of the sort before, nor had he seen him even pack such costly attire. Following Sydney's lead, he opened the chest where he'd placed the clothing he'd brought, and looked through it for the best shirt he had. He had nothing so fine as the silks Sydney was going through, but a carefully woven linen would do well enough, he decided. "How is this?"

Sydney glanced over and nodded. "Do wear that jacket we bought you, as well - it suits you." He paused again, regarding a black shirt with interest before reluctantly tossing it onto the bed with the green. The cream-colored silk beneath it seemed to catch his attention, though, and finally he nodded, satisfied.

The metal blades of his hands seemed precariously close to catching in the expensive fabric as the mage shrugged off the white robe he'd taken to wearing around the manor and placed one arm through a sleeve of the fresh garment. "Here - let me help," Hardin suggested, taking hold of the other sleeve; Sydney rarely wore shirts, most likely because the nature of his arms and hands made it difficult. He was mildly surprised when Sydney did not object, particularly after his outburst the previous night, but simply allowed him to guide his left hand safely through.

When Hardin's hands went to the cord on the front, however, Sydney shrugged them away. "I can manage, thank you," he remarked, deftly lacing the cord along the front of the shirt on his own. "I've had these limbs for some time now, and I am used to them. You should tend to your own preparations."

Hardin nodded, and went about changing his own shirt as Sydney finished lacing his. The loose cut looked good on the mage, hiding the strange planes and curves of his artificial limbs in gracefully draped fabric, causing him to look quite normal, and surprisingly aristocratic.

Opening the door to the balcony, Sydney stepped outside, the rain having stopped for the time being in the early afternoon, though the skies remained grey and hazy. The mage stepped to the railing and glanced out over the land beyond the walls, nodding to himself. "The carriage is already within sight. It will not be long now."

Hardin stepped outside to look as well once he had changed, and immediately spotted the carriage in the distance, for it stood out sharply against the pale stone road. "So then, what is to happen when the duke and duchess arrive?" he inquired.

"Someone will tell them of our presence, I suppose," Sydney replied, absently straightening his shirtsleeves. "Then the duke, and perhaps his wife with him, will hold a short audience to greet us and ask us what our business is, and invite us to dine with them tonight. I'm sure you're familiar with such formalities."

"Aye, though I've never met with someone of high rank under such circumstances as these."

"There is not much difference between this and any other social visit," Sydney assured him, "for the duke and I know each other quite well. No need to worry - I will handle the details." The mage still wore a vague look of anxiety that made it difficult for Hardin to trust his words so easily, but at least he was no longer snapping at him, and that seemed to indicate that he was more comfortable with the situation than he had been.

Looking out to the road once again, Sydney watched the carriage's approach with a slight frown. Hardin would have asked what was the matter, had he not known by this time that he would get no answer.

Just as Sydney had predicted, not long after the carriage had entered the gates, a knock came upon the door - a young man informing them that the duke wished to see them in his sitting room shortly. It mildly surprised Hardin that things should happen so quickly, as the duke undoubtedly was weary from his travels. He must have considered Sydney very important, to meet with him immediately. Sydney was not surprised in the least, but simply nodded in acknowledgement and assured the servant that he knew the way.

The mage remained silent as he strode through the hallways, Hardin following just behind, until they entered the duke's sitting room. The furnishings were not unlike those of the suite in which they stayed, all luxurious velvet and gilt and leather. Duke Bardorba himself looked no less splendid, seated upon one of the large leather couches; he looked a great deal older than Hardin remembered from his youth, and wore more simple, practical garments than the ornate robes he wore for formal audiences, but the duke had an stern air of dignity that Hardin imagined would make the man imposing regardless of his appearance. Standing behind the couch was a slightly younger woman clothed in pale silks, her dark blonde hair pulled back into a long braid that was just beginning to be touched by threads of silver. Even had Hardin not recognized her after a moment's thought - she'd made few appearances while the duke had discussed matters of state - the haughty look, marring her handsome face with faint lines, marked her as the duchess, Lady Ellemir.

Upon entering, Sydney offered the duke and duchess a low and gracious bow, and Hardin followed his lead. "'Tis an honor to be once again in your presence, my lord, my lady."

"Well met, Sydney," the duke greeted him, inclining his head slightly in a gesture of respect. His wife made no such move, but peered at Sydney with a mild look of disapproval. Already Hardin knew he did not like her. "It has been quite some time since you've come calling - and I'm afraid I do not know your companion."

"Yes, my work has kept me busy," Sydney replied with impeccable politeness. "And as for my companion, this is John Hardin."

The duke's eyes fell with a curious sharpness on Hardin's face, but he simply nodded. "A pleasure, John Hardin," was his only response.

Hardin glanced over at Sydney, surprised; he hadn't expected Sydney to give his real name to the duke. Though his face could have gone unrecognized, his name - especially his family name - would not, and Hardin was sure Sydney knew it. "I am honored, my lord," he murmured politely. At least the duchess didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary.

"So, Sydney," the duke continued, turning back to the mage. "What business brings you here after so long?"

Sydney bowed his head with a humility that seemed very uncharacteristic of him, though the Duke likely would not know any better, Hardin guessed. "The brethren and I have been through many trials in the years since we last met, my lord," he began. "Even so, we have been able to manage well enough until this past week, when a rather severe tragedy occurred. I was hoping that you might hear the tale, and be moved to assist us in some way, however small."

The duchess sniffed haughtily, drawing a stern look from her husband and a startled one from Sydney. She did not appear to notice, but kept her gaze on Sydney, who composed himself again swiftly.

"I regret to hear it," the Duke replied. "I am curious to hear what has happened, but we have been travelling this day, and these old bones of mine are crying out for a warm bath and some quiet - shall we speak of the matter after dinner tonight, in private? I trust the two of you shall be joining us for the evening's meal."

"You honor me with your hospitality in these times." Sydney gave a slight, graceful bow. "Of course we would be delighted - and of course after dinner would be suitable." He hesitated for a moment. "If I may ask, my lord... have you been enjoying good health since we last spoke?"

"Indeed, indeed," the duke affirmed, nodding. "A few aches and pains here and there, but nothing unusual for a man of my age - I am not as young as I once was."

Sydney nodded, and his eyes went to the duchess, who still looked down her nose at the two of them as though they were insects. "And you, Lady Ellemir?"

She seemed to be caught off guard by the question, but collected her thoughts quickly enough to give a short, stiff answer. "I've been well enough, thank you."

Sydney's eyes were cold and brittle as glass. "I'm pleased to hear it," he said formally. "Now, I suppose we shall leave my lord and lady to attend to their business?"

"Yes, thank you," the duke replied. "So then, Sydney - we shall see you at dinner?"

Sydney nodded. "You shall, my lord."

Once they'd left the chamber, out of sight of the duke and duchess, the harsh grating sound of metal against metal sounded as Sydney's hands clenched into tight fists. Hardin paused in mid-stride, quite curious by this time as to what had the mage so on edge. "Sydney...?"

A shake of his blonde head was the only reply he made, and he did not so much as look back at Hardin. With a shrug, Hardin set off after the mage once more as he stalked through the halls back to their suite.

Once they'd arrived and Hardin had closed the door behind them, Sydney irritably seated himself in one of the rich leather chairs that furnished the room, sinking his head into his hands. Hardin stood by, uncertain of what he should do or say, and finally Sydney looked up, resting his cheek wearily in one metal palm as he answered Hardin's unspoken question. "Lady Ellemir is with child."

"What?" Hardin was stunned. Duke Bardorba had to have been in his late fifties, if not early sixties by this time, and though his wife was perhaps fifteen years younger, it was still unusual that she should have a child at her age. Besides, the duke's sad tale was known throughout the land; he had had an heir, once - the son of his first marriage. The birth had been a difficult one, leaving both mother and child weak, and the duchess had died when the child was still quite young, having never fully recovered. As well, the boy was sickly, and rarely seen in public before he finally succumbed to some illness in his teenage years. Though the duke had married again to Lady Ellemir long before, everyone had come to assume that she was barren, for they never produced another heir.

It had seemed as though the duke would be the last of the distinguished Bardorba lineage, and upon his death, the properties and titles held by his family for centuries would be relinquished to the royal family. "How fortunate for him, that he should sire a child in his old age," Hardin remarked. "After living nearly his entire life with no heir..."

"I don't believe he knows yet, nor even the duchess herself. You forget, Hardin, that I possess senses much sharper than those of ordinary men and women..." He sighed, and Hardin wanted to cringe at the sight of blade-like fingers fretfully tapping upon the arm of the chair in which the mage sat, threatening to puncture the expensive leather. Sydney certainly didn't appear to be pleased with the news. "The child will be a boy, and I do not envy him." Standing again, Sydney began to pace back and forth across the chamber, punctuating his words with irritable gestures. "Always coddled, always smothered - always stifled! They'll cling so tightly to the boy that he'll never understand the world outside these walls, and his head will be filled with that woman's religious nonsense without even knowing that it is but one faith among many! And the gods forbid he should ever be bright enough to dare _question_ what he is told..."

Hardin followed as Sydney flung the door to the balcony open angrily and went to lean upon the railing, gazing down over the courtyards below with bitterness. "To a woman such as the duchess, a son is no more than a puppet - a precious, cherub-faced puppet, but a puppet nonetheless," he said softly. "If he does not dance as she wishes him to, she will not only cut his strings, but strangle him with them."

Somewhat unnerved by Sydney's sudden fervor, Hardin hesitated before joining the mage at the railing. "Is this a prophecy?"

"Gods, I hope not." Having vented his anger, the bitterness began to leave Sydney's face, leaving him looking as distant as ever, if exhausted. "I hope not."

Looking upon the outwardly calm demeanor Sydney had regained, Hardin could not help but feel amazed, as though he had witnessed something precious. _He cares so much,_ he thought to himself, _even about this one child who has yet to be born... and no one seems to see how much he cares but I. He's so cold, so very cold, but so beautiful within..._

Suddenly Hardin felt a strong need to touch him, not only to comfort the mage, but to confirm for himself that such a creature as he really existed, that he was truly there. Rather than waste time agonizing over it, this time Hardin reached out with little hesitation, resting a hand upon the silk shirt. Beneath, he could feel the hardness of Sydney's metal shoulder, and in search of something more accessible, his fingers drifted further left, towards the center of the mage's back. Stiff metal gave way to the softness of flesh beneath the thin fabric, and Hardin felt Sydney tense at the touch of his fingers. He waited for a reaction, whether it be a rebuke or an affirmation, but Sydney's expression did not change. However, neither did he protest, and so Hardin continued the motion, sweeping away the strands of pale hair, until the tips of his fingers rested at the base of Sydney's neck.

Sydney's muscles were still taut below his touch, and instinctively Hardin caressed him gently, his thumb moving in small circles upon the mage's upper back, just where he knew the tip of the inverted rood must lie. Sydney remained silent and unmoving, though Hardin heard the sound of his breath grow deeper, quicker. He was pretending not to notice or care, Hardin thought, but he knew what to look for by now.

"Gods, but you're tense," he murmured absently in surprise. It seemed strange to him that a soul so fey and untouchable should be rooted within a tangible body, much less one so stiff with tension, and as he stepped behind Sydney, his other hand lifted to mirror the subtle motions of his right hand as it rested upon Sydney's shoulder. Unconsciously, Sydney lowered his head, leaning back into the gentle massage. His fine hair brushed Hardin's hands, tickling faintly, and Hardin could not resist sliding his hands up further beneath that hair, past the collar of his shirt to bare skin, continuing the circular motions at the nape of Sydney's neck.

Sydney drew in a deep breath, his back arching ever so slightly as he leaned further into the massage, and in response, Hardin pressed harder, kneading the muscles of Sydney's neck and shoulders. How tight they were, he thought in sympathy. And no wonder, after his long hours bent over a book in the library, and nights sleeping upon uneven ground before that.

"Hardin."

The mage's voice was cold as ever, though slightly breathless, and Hardin paused. "Yes?"

"Stop."

It had been a bit presumptuous, he supposed, to touch him at all, let alone in such an intimate way, and he obediently removed his hands. "I'm sorry... I just..." He faltered, unsure of what he could say that could not be taken the wrong way.

"It's all right."

Those three words, spoken mildly, meant more to Hardin than he'd have thought possible, and he smiled faintly as he stepped forward again to lean upon the railing beside Sydney. Without the rain falling, he could see a long way, he discovered. There was not much to see aside from forest and grey sky, but that was all right too.

A glance at Sydney revealed the mage's weary eyes to be downcast, regarding the courtyards below rather than the land beyond the walls of the manor. Hardin lowered his eyes as well, watching the servants bustle about in what he assumed to be their usual daily routines - carrying water and firewood, leading horses, keeping watch at the gates. He'd once lived in this world, he thought, but it seemed a lifetime ago. Aside from missing his brother terribly, he found that he did not regret its loss; a life lived within walls left little opportunity to accomplish much of anything, and the past months with Mullenkamp had let him feel real freedom for the first time - freedom not only to do as he wished, but to be what he was... whatever precisely that may have been.

Sydney seemed to be preoccupied, and unwilling to either disturb him or leave him alone with his worries, Hardin said nothing, choosing to remain by his side in silence until the servants came to inform them that it was time for dinner.

* * *

The atmosphere in the dining hall was much more formal than it had been on the previous night, now that the duke and duchess had returned from their holiday. No servants were seen, except for those who brought the trays of food and then vanished, returning only to clear away the emptied trays and refill wineglasses as needed, and so Sydney and Hardin were left alone with their two hosts.

The duke greeted them upon their arrival, inviting them to sit and partake, and though Sydney accepted that invitation, seating himself across from the duke and duchess in the center of the long table, his face showed none of the gratitude or the grace he'd shown at their previous meeting. Under the disapproving eyes of the duchess, Hardin also found it difficult to feel at ease, but he'd expected more from Sydney. The mage remained quiet and distant as he filled his plate with the food the duke's servants had prepared, and again Hardin chose to follow his lead. Not that it took much effort - the cooks had apparently gone all out to provide quite a feast despite the fact that there were only four people present, and everything looked and smelled wonderful.

Even so, Sydney did not eat much of his meal, Hardin noticed, but before long lapsed into simply moving the food around on his plate, and occasionally fiddling with a crust of bread. When he did take a bite, it was though he was not tasting the food at all, but chewing and swallowing mechanically. Neither did he say much, though it seemed odd for him to be so quiet in a social setting, even when faced with someone who so obviously did not care for him or his teachings. Or perhaps especially - usually he enjoyed provoking such people.

For her part, the duchess pointedly ignored the mage, not adding a word into the duke's occasional attempts to make small talk with Sydney and Hardin. She ate in stern-faced silence, not speaking even to her husband until Sydney had lapsed back into silence, ending the thin threads of conversation between them, and then often turned the subject to something more to her liking - the behavior of nobles at the latest balls, or the doings of the church. Upon these subjects she was rather talkative, smiling and laughing with her husband as they discussed such matters, leaving Sydney and Hardin completely secluded from the conversation. Hardin would not have minded, having little to say to the two nobles, if it did not seem to bother Sydney so; the mage grew almost visibly more tense each time the duchess broke their uneasy silence.

In the middle of one such exchange, while the duchess laughed in reminiscing the antics of a certain drunken count, Sydney abruptly stood. "Excuse me," he murmured under his breath as he quickly left the dining room. The duchess paused at the interruption, gave a haughty sniff at the mage's lack of manners, and returned to what she was saying. The duke's eyebrows furrowed a bit, but he said nothing.

Since neither of them was speaking to Hardin at the moment, he followed Sydney with the Sight, curious as to where the mage was going. He found Sydney pacing restlessly in a grassy courtyard, his breath quick and ragged. The struggle for control was visible on his face and in the way his fingers clenched and unclenched nervously, and finally he gave up. Bracing himself against a wall with one metal arm, he bent over and was quietly sick in the corner.

Hardin was somewhat alarmed; any other man might have caught a chill from the cold and fatigue, and picked up some malaise... but this was Sydney. Sydney, who could scarcely be paused by a sword through the gut! It seemed rather odd that he should be ill, and Hardin considered leaving the table to go to him. But it would be rather rude to also leave the table in the middle of a meal as Sydney had done, and no doubt the duchess would think even less of them than she already did. Instead, he simply watched with the Sight as Sydney sat down on the grass wearily, leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes as his lips moved in silent prayer.

As preoccupied as he was, the duke's voice almost startled Hardin out of the scrying, despite the control he'd learned. "So, John Hardin... if you don't object to my asking, how is it that you fell in with Mullenkamp?"

Not surprising that he was curious, Hardin supposed, considering that the duke almost certainly knew of the scandal he'd been involved in. But although Sydney had trusted the duke enough to introduce him by his real name, Hardin did not particularly want to go into the details of his recent life; if he knew of the scandal already, there was no need to recount it for him, and if he did not, he did not want to have to explain. "Not at all, my lord, though there is not much to the telling," he said, dropping the scrying so that he could better concentrate. Sydney could take care of himself, after all, and he knew it, even as concerned as he was. "I'd made some poor choices in the past years... I was penniless and a wanderer, little more than a common rogue, when I chanced to encounter the brethren. Sydney took me in, offering me much needed food and shelter. I remained with Mullenkamp both to repay his kindness in labor, and because I had noplace else to go."

"So you are not one of Sydney's cultists, then?" the duchess asked, peering at him with sudden interest over the rim of her wine glass.

"Not formally, no," Hardin affirmed. "I've made no vows or pledges to him or his religion."

The duchess nodded in approval, a slightly smug smile upon her lips. "A wise choice, I believe."

It was a bit of an effort for Hardin not to grimace in sudden anger - he did not like the woman at all. "Not a wise _choice_, my lady, for I have made no choice at all as of yet - I am still making up my mind."

She made no effort to hide her displeased frown, but the duke cut in before she could say anything. "Sydney must think a great deal of you, then, that he should bring you alone as his escort to this place, despite you not being one of his sworn men."

"I would like to think so, my lord," Hardin replied, grateful for the intervention. "In truth, I owe him much. Though I have taken no vows, I would not hesitate to give my life defending his, and I would hope that he knows that." Obviously he did, of course, but Hardin was not likely to make any mention of Sydney's abilities in the presence of such a pious and haughty person as the duchess.

"I see," said the duke with an approving nod, which was much at odds with the expression on his wife's face. "Sydney is fortunate to have such a faithful friend at his side."

The duchess murmured something, and this time even the duke frowned. It was difficult for Hardin to keep his face neutral, as he'd caught a bit of what she'd said - something that hinted at exactly when and where he might be "at Sydney's side". How dare that woman make such intimations, even if there was some truth to it? It was none of her business, and nothing to be taunted over, besides. For the sake of propriety, he pretended he hadn't heard, but inside he was seething.

"You hail from the north, do you not?" the duke asked, tactfully cutting off any more commentary on the matter. "From Bervenia, if I remember your family's holdings correctly. I've been there many a time - a lovely land much different from the Graylands."

"Indeed, quite different," Hardin agreed, once again grateful for the change of topic. "Though my work has taken me through the Graylands many times, so it does not seem foreign to me."

As Hardin and the duke exchanged casual conversation about their homelands, Sydney returned, sitting down beside Hardin without saying a word. The duke was speaking at the moment, and so Hardin took a moment to glance over at Sydney curiously. The mage did not meet his eyes, and merely picked up his wineglass to sip at his drink, still looking a bit shaky. _Before you ask,_ his voice said softly within Hardin's mind, _yes - I am fine. Go on about your conversation._

Hardin did as Sydney asked, responding to the duke's question about Bervenian winters, and neither the duke nor the duchess commented upon Sydney's return. "They are not so bad as most would say - though since I spent my childhood there, I am perhaps not the best judge of such things."

"Ah, then perhaps you find summers here in the lowlands overly warm for your taste? Or have you yet to spend a summer here?"

"Aye, my work brought me here three years ago in the midst of the warm season. It is not so bad, though; our summers in Bervenia are not so much cooler, though we have the advantage of the air being quite dry."

"Indeed, indeed - I do recall that from the last journey I made."

Hardin found it terribly ironic that despite Sydney's acquaintance with the duke, and his usual grace in social situations, he himself was doing most of the conversing over dinner. Still, Sydney did not seem to be well, and if it made things easier on the mage to carry the bulk of the conversation, then Hardin would do so willingly. Besides, the duke was not an unpleasant person to speak with, he'd discovered, though his high rank still made the man somewhat intimidating.

The duchess, on the other hand, had remained silent, almost sulky, ever since the duke's wordless rebuke. She seemed to be concerning herself with the tapestries that hung upon the walls, avoiding even the slightest eye contact with the two cultists across the table. As cold and stern as the duke was, somehow he seemed to be a gracious man, and Hardin wondered how he'd come to be married to such a shrew. Between her unfriendliness and Sydney's obvious discomfort, even the mild conversation was a strain to continue, so tight was the tension in the room, but Hardin tried his best to follow Duke Bardorba's lead. Far worse would it be if the room were to once again lapse into uncomfortable silence.

Soon the conversation had turned to local politics and then militias, a topic Hardin was somewhat reluctant to discuss in depth, due to his crimes, but the duke skillfully avoided the specifics. "I've heard that your superiors thought it a great loss when you left the PeaceGuard," he commented. "They say you had a natural aptitude for swordplay."

"I'm flattered, my lord," Hardin responded, a bit surprised by the compliment - particularly coming from those who had lied to him and left him to rot in prison. "But I would not say that I had any great aptitude, to be honest. I was simply diligent with my training."

"That is perhaps more admirable," the duke commented with a nod. "I would say that it is a greater feat to become talented at some skill through determination, as opposed to simply being born with that talent."

"Have you remained well-practiced in your swordsmanship?" the duchess asked, rejoining their conversation suddenly.

"I spent quite some time away from the sword in the past few years," Hardin admitted, trying not to show his surprise at her question. "After having picked it up again recently, though, it seems as though my sword-arm has forgotten little of what it once knew."

"It seems you have many options, then," the duchess suggested. "Travellers and merchants are always picking up guards to protect them on their journeys, as many bandits and rogues roam free. You might put your skill to good use once again."

Ah, so that was why she was butting in now, Hardin realized - to give the poor, wayward soul who had taken up with a cult of heretics a more righteous way out. It may have been meant as simply a kind gesture, he supposed, but her arrogant piety grated on his nerves. "The suggestion is appreciated, my lady, but for the time being I am content to remain as I am. Travellers and merchants are not the only ones who need protection in these troubled times." Some of the others needed protection from her flock, he thought with irritation.

"Hmm. I see."

Her words were cut off by a sudden motion, and Hardin glanced up to see Sydney rise, abruptly leaving the table for the second time - this time without so much as a murmured apology or a nod. He did not look ill as he had before, when Hardin caught a glimpse of his face; instead, his face was carefully devoid of any expression as he strode quickly from the room.

Hardin watched Sydney go, then glanced back to the duke and duchess, who looked only mildly surprised at the sudden departure. Remembering Sydney's state the last time he'd left the table, Hardin looked over his shoulder once again to where Sydney had vanished. He really should go to him, he thought, to see if there was anything that he could do. "...Excuse us for a moment," he muttered, as he stood to follow Sydney, mentally cursing himself for being such a mother hen.

Keeping a quick pace, he caught up to the mage easily as he stalked through the halls, anger apparent in his posture. "Sydney, are you all right?" Hardin asked, worried, as he fell into Sydney's stride.

Sydney shook his head, dismissing Hardin's concern. "I am fine, Hardin. I just..." Moments passed, and he threw his hands up in frustration, apparently unable to find the words he sought.

Hardin's worry didn't lessen a bit. "What is this? I know you were ill earlier, but this is the second time tonight you've simply walked out on the duke and duchess. Rather impolite..."

"Yes, tell them that," Sydney muttered. "Tell them that I am ill, and I will speak with Duke Bardorba tomorrow, if it suits him."

"Sydney..." Hardin reached out to place a comforting hand on Sydney's back, but the mage pushed it away roughly. "...All right, then," he agreed. "Whatever you wish." Sydney said not a word as Hardin stopped to go back to the hall where the duke and duchess were waiting for them.

The two nobles looked up questioningly as he entered, and he hesitated, feeling the full force of their rank. "Sydney is not feeling well," he said finally, nodding his head in apology. "Would it be acceptable to speak to him tomorrow instead?"

The duke nodded. "Perfectly acceptable, if he is up to it. My best to him, for a quick recovery."

To Hardin's annoyance, the duchess almost smirked. "I'm sure he'd have a quick recovery indeed, if he would repent of his dark ways. This malady of his is likely punishment from God."

"Ellemir, you know as well as I do that such a notion is absurd," the duke rebuked her, and she frowned, almost pouting. Hardin left quickly, thinking it would be best to leave them to their argument in private. A truly odd couple, those two were.

Entering their rooms, Hardin found Sydney already undressed and in bed, lying on his side under the covers, though he was not asleep. Instead, he seemed to simply be staring into space, as if deep in thought - and from the expression on his face, the thoughts were not pleasant ones. "Sydney, what is it?" Hardin asked. "You've not been yourself since our arrival."

Sydney didn't even look at him, much less respond, and Hardin sighed. "Sydney..." he began, kneeling down beside his bed to come eye to eye with the mage. "_Are_ you ill? If there is anything I can do..."

His voice trailed off into silence as he realized Sydney was still simply staring into space, and didn't seem to be listening to him. "Sydney? Sydney..."

Sydney still didn't look up, even when Hardin touched his forehead lightly, checking for fever. Thus he was only slightly relieved that Sydney did not feel feverish - on the contrary, his skin felt eerily cold. "What is this, Sydney?" Hardin asked, more forcefully. "It is no illness, is it?" He still received no response, and looked Sydney over again.

There was something strange and yet familiar about the dull, stormy look in his eyes, and Hardin looked closer for a few moments before recognizing it. He'd seen the same look upon the faces of some of his fellow prisoners: a depression so severe that the mind simply shut down beneath its weight. It was not something he'd ever wanted to see in anyone's eyes again, much less someone close to him.

It would likely pass, given time - he had seen it happen often enough - but seeing Sydney so lost, perhaps more than half dead to the world, terrified him. Not knowing how else to get through to Sydney, Hardin steeled himself for the mental contact he hated so, and poured all his anxiety into a sharp, desperate silent cry. _Sydney! Talk to me!_

Sydney blinked, and his dark eyes flickered over to look into Hardin's, only inches from his face. Hardin had left his mind wide open for the rapport Sydney could form between them, and instead of the words he'd expected, suddenly he was flooded with overwhelming emotions - shame, loneliness, anger, and to his surprise, even fear.

"Gods... Sydney..." The mage gave a slight sigh and closed his eyes as Hardin reached out to touch his face gently. If Sydney had been ill, there might have been something he could do for him, but what could be done for a pain that existed only in the heart?

There was only one thing Hardin could think of to do - the only thing that had ever truly made him feel useful to someone. Rising to sit on the bed, he slipped an arm under Sydney's shoulder, lifting him so that he could hold him close until his anguish passed. Sydney's body was limp in his arms, and though the mage did not overtly respond at all, through the mental rapport they shared, Hardin sensed a great rush of gratitude mingling with Sydney's pain.

They remained that way for quite some time, the mage's head leaning against his shoulder as the small patch of sky seen through the window darkened into the blackness of night. At last Sydney stirred in his arms, trying to settle his mechanical limbs in a more comfortable position. The blades of his fingers had been pricking Hardin through his shirt, but he hadn't minded, really. He loosened his embrace so that Sydney could move more freely, and found Sydney looking up at him. His mouth opened to speak, but it was a moment before he managed to get the words out.

"I hate this place, Hardin," he whispered breathlessly, barely audible. "I hate it."

"Why? What happened here?"

"...It's complicated." Sydney smiled a faint smile. "The duke and I... we have a long history. The duchess as well."

Through the rapport, Hardin felt a sharp pang of bitterness that made him flinch. "Say the word and we will leave," he told Sydney firmly. "Even if I must carry you in my arms."

Sydney shook his head slightly. "My flock is in danger, and I will not leave them to be preyed upon. The duke almost certainly will assist us, if I explain the matter to him."

"In this condition, Sydney?"

"It passes," Sydney's faint whisper came again. "It always does. I thank you for the kindness, Hardin, but it is late. Go to your bed - I will be better in the morning, I'm sure."

Hardin hesitated; through their rapport, he could feel the sense of relief that flowed over Sydney with his touch, and the faint spark of fear at the thought of being alone again, despite his words. He reached his decision quickly enough, and continued to cradle Sydney in one arm as he reached down with the other to remove the boots he wore.

Perfectly aware of what Hardin was doing, Sydney shook his head slightly, snapping the threads of their rapport just a moment too late. "Hardin..."

"It's all right," Hardin assured him, easing him back down upon the pillow while he removed his jacket. "I'm not afraid anymore... not of you nor I. ...Nor you _and_ I." It was the truth - ever since that near-encounter beneath the tree, the day of Padric's death, Hardin had accepted that possibility. Padric's last words to him had urged him to trust in his heart, and now he found that his heart was for Sydney, as a follower, a friend, or whatever else Sydney needed him to be. As he'd said to the Duke at dinner, the vows he had not taken meant nothing when compared to something more basic - the honest desire to serve and protect out of friendship and respect. "Besides, I mean only to hold you - no more. Do you deny that it would make your night pass easier?"

"No, but..." Sydney sighed faintly. "It is too dangerous here. You know that the duchess frowns on... such things. I must speak to the duke, but if she were to look in on us, or one of her loyal servants - even as we were moments ago - she would doubtless throw us out of-"

It was ridiculously unlike the Sydney that he knew, to be so meek in the face of one of Iocus' followers, that Hardin surprised even himself by bending over and defiantly kissing the mage full on the mouth to shut him up. "To hell with the damn duchess."

Expecting more arguments, Hardin was surprised when Sydney's shoulders began to shake in silent laughter. Hardin was left utterly baffled. "What...?"

"If you only knew," Sydney said between bursts of laughter, "how many times I have wanted to express that exact sentiment. And to think, I thought you were too dull and well-mannered to express it in such a precisely fitting way..."

Hardin wasn't sure whether to be flattered or offended. At least Sydney seemed to be feeling a bit better now, he thought with an exasperated sigh, and that was certainly a good thing.

Settling himself back down against the pillow once more, Sydney's laughter ceased, and he looked up at Hardin, melancholy once more. "This really is too dangerous, you know," he repeated as Hardin pulled back the blankets to lie down beside him.

"And I could not care less." Pillowing Sydney's head upon his arm, Hardin laid the other across the mage's waist protectively, drawing him close beneath the covers. The mage's back was warm and snug against Hardin's chest, and he let the tension slip out of his body, relaxing in the peaceful intimacy of the embrace. He was glad when Sydney made no further protests - though perhaps a bit troubled by the fact that the mage actually was upset enough to concede defeat.

He was dozing, nearly asleep, when he suddenly became aware that Sydney was trembling in his arms. With his back turned, the mage's face was not visible, and Hardin's concern brought him partially awake again. "Sydney?" he murmured drowsily.

"John... I..."

The sound of his first name, whispered in Sydney's broken voice for the first time, startled and enchanted him so that he could not speak.

"...I'm sorry."

He sounded as if he were crying, perhaps. "For what?" Hardin asked gently.

He waited, but it became apparent he would receive no answer aside from Sydney's continued trembling. At last Hardin simply pulled him closer, his arms tight around the mage as he pressed his lips to the top of Sydney's head, kissing the soft, fine hair.

With time, Sydney calmed, and from the deep, even breaths he took, Hardin knew he'd fallen asleep at last. Relieved, he too drifted off into dreams - and this time, they were not unpleasant.


	13. Beyond the Gilded Cage

As the morning sun drifted between the curtains of the guest rooms, Hardin found he had awoken before Sydney. His sleep had been particularly refreshing, and he fought the urge to stretch, not wishing to disturb the blonde whose head rested so lightly upon his arm. The mage had turned over in his sleep, apparently, for now one metal arm rested between the two of them, and his thin legs curled against Hardin's own as he faced the larger man.

Hardin had a clear view of his face now, and was glad to see that Sydney looked peaceful for once. No more the weeping angel he remembered from weeks past, Sydney looked almost childishly innocent in his slumber, with his mussed hair and lips parted ever so slightly. Hardin remained still, watching Sydney sleep in silent wonder. The steady rise and fall of Sydney's chest beneath his arm was strangely hypnotic - with every breath, the steel of Sydney's carelessly draped arm pressed awkwardly against his stomach, and yet Hardin would have been content to let it continue all morning. Many times he'd seen Sydney sleeping, of course, but never so peacefully, and never so close.

A small lapse in Sydney's even breathing some time later told Hardin that the mage was waking up, but he remained unmoving and silent as Sydney began to stir. His mouth opened in a yawn before his eyes, less than a handsbreadth from Hardin's own. Upon seeing whose arms were beneath his head and around his waist, he gave Hardin a smile, albeit a drowsy one. "Good morning, Hardin."

"Are you feeling better now?" Hardin asked softly, unwilling to disturb the quiet peacefulness they shared.

Sydney's smile slipped as he came more fully awake and took in his surroundings, but he nodded. "Much," he murmured, wriggling a bit as he moved his metal limbs to a more comfortable position.

"That's good." The movement made Hardin acutely aware of the mage's body, and it suddenly occurred to him just how close they were, lying against each other in the softness of a fine mattress and smooth sheets. Without thinking about it, he let the hand at Sydney's waist drift up to touch the mage's cheek, to caress the pale, flawless skin. Sydney raised a bemused eyebrow at him, but it made his face all that much more charming, and no less captivating. Their eyes locked, and Hardin was forcibly reminded of the dream he'd had upon his arrival. Only one thought was in his head, and it was a rather vehement one.

Sydney obviously picked up on it, for after a moment, he gave an exasperated sigh and rolled onto his back. "Why is it you can never get these urges at an _appropriate_ time and place?" he asked with a chuckle.

With a smile, Hardin pushed himself up to lean upon one elbow, looking down at Sydney beside him. "Someday, I suppose I will."

Sydney looked much more like his usual self when he flashed a coy smile at Hardin. "And then what will you do?"

Hardin shrugged lightly. "Whatever my heart tells me."

Suddenly, Hardin found himself being shoved roughly onto his back as Sydney rolled on top of him, their legs intertwining. Trapping Hardin with a metal hand on either side of his head, the mage paused and looked down at the larger man with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. Hardin was not unhappy about this development at all. Somehow, this seemed too familiar, and not just because of the dream he'd had; there was another memory buried somewhere, albeit deep. He could not identify it with any of the women who had ever shared his bed, though, and after a moment, a possible explanation occurred to him. With a mixture of wariness and the barest threads of hope, he spoke.

"This has happened before, hasn't it?"

Sydney's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Perhaps it has."

Regardless of Hardin's discomfort at the thought, he could not deny that he wanted Sydney badly, particularly now that the mage was lying atop him, their legs tangled together between the sheets. His intense gaze remained fixed upon Hardin, who simply waited with growing anticipation to see what Sydney would do next.

Just when he thought he couldn't bear it any longer, Sydney finally spoke - and his words were the last ones Hardin was expecting. "I believe I'll go take a bath before I speak with the duke." With an impish grin, he rolled over the top of Hardin, disentangling himself from the sheets with ease as he stood and stretched casually.

"...Damn you," Hardin murmured breathlessly, and Sydney's grin only widened as he vanished through the door to the washroom. At least he was acting like his normal irritating self, Hardin thought ruefully.

Though he hadn't taken much note of it earlier, Hardin realized as he stretched and rose that there was actual sunlight outside - a weak, watery sunlight, but still more sunlight than he'd seen since he and Sydney had set out on this journey. Leaving the door wide open behind him to let in more of the light, he stepped out onto the balcony, letting himself enjoy it to the best of his ability, relaxing even while he watched the servants scurrying about below, beginning the day's chores. Between the sunshine and waking up next to a much-improved and nearly affectionate Sydney, the day seemed to hold the possibility of being a good one, for a change.

A knock at the door sent him back inside, and he opened it to find one of the maids bearing a tray of breakfast. The cook had heard that Sydney was ill, she said, and had sent along breakfast for the both of them, as Hardin certainly would be tending to his friend in their rooms. Hardin nodded and thanked her. Even if Sydney was already feeling much better, it would be much nicer to eat in the comfortable privacy of their suite than in a formal dining hall.

Hardin was laying out their meal on the small table in their suite when Sydney emerged from the bath wrapped in a robe, his hair still damp. "Feeling up to eating something?"

Sydney hesitated a moment, then nodded slightly. "A little something, perhaps," he agreed, sitting down. A faint smile crossed his lips as he looked over the food that Hardin was placing upon the table. "Ah, Maeta..." he murmured. "She knows exactly what will tempt me to eat when this has come over me."

"The cook?" Hardin asked, sitting down across from Sydney. "I spoke to her briefly, she seemed quite kind."

"Yes, she is," he agreed, reaching out to take a slice of some sweet bread from one of the platters between them. It was still warm, and smelled faintly of fruit, Hardin found when he did likewise. "Wise, also - in matters of the spirit as well as matters of the kitchen. Maeta is one of the few in this place who have ever made me feel that I am welcome."

Hardin had filled his plate with other delicacies already, but Sydney's claws simply broke a bite-size portion of the dark bread, and he partook almost gingerly. He was still not well, Hardin thought. "You did not tell me last night... why does this place bother you so? Why would you have come here, if it causes you such distress?"

"As for why it bothers me, simply think about how we have been treated since our arrival," Sydney said dryly. "And as for why I come here... I did tell you last night that it was a long story."

"We have plenty of time," Hardin pointed out, "so I suppose you simply do not want to tell me this long story."

Sydney's eyes remained on the bread in his hands, his fingers glinting a little in the light as he broke off another morsel. "You suppose right."

A slight breeze from the open door to the balcony ruffled his drying hair, and once again Hardin found himself struck by how odd the whole situation was. That he should be sitting casually at a table in a guest room at Duke Bardorba's manor, sharing breakfast with the prophet from some apocalyptic cult, who had metal blades for fingers... and moreover, that this strange man was very nearly his lover - that a _man_ should be nearly a lover at all... A year ago, he would have scoffed if someone had suggested the possibility of any one of these elements, and yet it felt like the most natural, comfortable thing that could happen. Sydney smiled vaguely, and Hardin wondered if he'd heard the thought or if his mind was on something else. If he had heard, he chose not to comment.

Hardin had not yet finished eating when Sydney stood, excusing himself to dress for his meeting with the duke. The way his head was lowered ever so slightly, his eyes downcast, told Hardin that he was not looking forward to it, but when Hardin began to rise to assist him in any way he could, Sydney assured him that it wasn't necessary, and he should finish his meal. When he emerged once more from the bedroom, the change was subtle but still striking to Hardin; his chin was lifted with dignity, his face perfectly cold and full of grace, just as it usually was. Even so, the sudden change was enough to make Hardin want to take him into his arms again, for he knew the mage was simply masking his discomfort. He stifled it though, and Sydney said nothing before he set out for the duke's chambers.

Long hours passed, and Hardin refused to give in to his urge to scrye upon Sydney, to see if all was well. He knew by now that Sydney wanted to keep his dealings with the duke between only the two of them. Still, he found himself growing a little concerned as the day wore on, seeing his shadow upon the stone of the balcony grow shorter and then begin to grow longer again, as the sun passed its peak in the sky. This was not a simple request for money, he thought, or it would have been over in no time. Something more complicated might require them to remain for days.

When he finally heard the door to their suite open again, he looked back to see Sydney heading for the bedroom, not sparing a word for him. Hardin followed him anyway. "How was it?" he asked.

"It was not so bad." Sydney did not elaborate further, but knelt beside his bed, pulling the pack he'd carried during their journey out from underneath it. "Are your things packed?"

"Ah, no... I didn't know that we-"

"Well then, pack them." His voice was not harsh or rude, but in fact almost pleased. "We can leave as soon as we've gathered our things."

"So your business is concluded?" Hardin asked. "I was beginning to think that we might have more negotiations..."

"Both the duke and myself prefer not to waste time." Bladed fingers reached into a small pouch that hung at his waist, and drew forth a large green gem with a flourish. The mage's face remained unchanged, though, and before Hardin could exclaim his surprise over the small fortune such an emerald must be worth, it was replaced in the pouch. As Sydney's fingers dropped it back into its place, Hardin thought he saw the glitter of other gemstones within, but the drawstring was pulled tight again before he could be certain. "The brethren shall eat - and so shall we, for Maeta is putting together a few things for our journey."

Hardin just shook his head in amazement. "The duke is a generous man."

"He can be, yes. Regardless, pack," Sydney reminded him. "The sooner we leave this place behind us, the better."

* * *

Striking out on their journey back to the hilly country to the east, to gather up Sydney's followers again, Hardin found himself growing more and more tense as the walls of the duke's manor faded further into indistinction behind them. He and Sydney had been alone together for just as long on the journey into the Graylands, of course, but now that so much had been laid bare between them, things had changed. At least, Hardin thought they had. Thinking back to all the times before that he'd found himself so close to the mage, only to have Sydney withdraw so thoroughly, he would not have been surprised had Sydney decided not to speak to him again for the whole of their journey. But this time when Hardin had freely offered his desire to help, Sydney had accepted it, even acknowledging his own frailties - and that had never happened before. There was nothing between them now, for the few barriers that might have remained after the previous night had certainly crumbled the moment Hardin had looked up into Sydney's eyes as he lay atop him.

All things considered, Hardin had half-expected Sydney to say _something_, though he could not have said what, as soon as they were well away from the manor and into the forest, but just as he'd feared, Sydney remained silent, picking a path through the underbrush methodically. Each time Hardin caught a glimpse of Sydney's face, it appeared just as cold and distant as he'd been when he went to speak to the duke, and Hardin's heart sank a little further.

Finally, he gathered up enough courage to say it outright. "Sydney, do not do this to me again."

Sydney glanced back at him idly. "Do what?"

"This." Hardin halted, and Sydney did as well. "This... distancing. Every single time you and I reach a new understanding, you distance yourself... you retreat and hide within yourself so that I cannot find the man who..."

Sydney waited, but Hardin could not find the words. "The man who what, Hardin?"

"I'm not sure," Hardin muttered. "The man who... fascinates me. Who makes me feel as though I have a true friend, perhaps more."

Sydney's posture relaxed as he turned to face Hardin, arms crossed over his chest, and Hardin let out a relieved breath, seeing that the mage intended to hear him out. "This... this phantom man... he seems to exist only for a split second, and just when I realize he is there, just when I reach out to touch him... he leaves me. When he leaves me, all I can think is that he must be playing some kind of game with me, for I know how he loves his games. ...I begin to wonder if I am just one of his toys."

He hesitated, hoping for some response from Sydney, some reassurance that this was not the case at all. Instead, Sydney simply nodded in acknowledgement. "But...?"

Hardin threw up his hands in annoyance. "See? This is precisely what I'm talking about, Sydney! The man I've seen vanishes, and none of his warmth remains in the shell he leaves behind. It looks like him, it walks like him and talks like him, but it doesn't care for or feel anything at all. Sometimes I wonder if he even exists, or if that too is part of some game."

His tirade ended, and he waited for whatever Sydney might say, reassuring or hurtful - nothing would surprise him now. The mage still looked perfectly cold, perfectly distant, when Hardin gave him a sideways glance. "But?" he repeated.

"But..." Hardin agreed with a sigh - he could not hide anything from Sydney. "...When this man makes himself known to me... beyond all doubt, I _know_ that this is who he is. He has done more for me than anyone else in this life," he said fervently, meeting Sydney's shielded eyes, "and all I desire is to care for him the way he has cared for me."

"You have," Sydney responded softly. "But the man is no more honest an entity than the shell. They are two halves of a whole, and you cannot have one without the other."

"Then that means that you are in there, even now," Hardin stated. "I understand, truly I do, but you have nothing to fear from me... I will not add to the burdens you bear, for I know how difficult it must-"

He was cut off by a hollow laugh. "You do, do you?" Sydney asked with a bitter smile. "Hardin, you understand nothing."

"Then help me to understand."

Sydney shook his head, suddenly serious once more. "The gods tell me many things, most of which are meant for my ears alone. I would not break their confidence."

"Then tell me something that does not come from the gods," Hardin said firmly. "You know all of my secrets, Sydney - my heart was laid out before you long ago, and yet I've learned next to nothing of you, in all these months. I want to know you... to understand you."

"Did it ever occur to you that I might not want or need to be 'understood'?" Sydney asked. "Perhaps I am content to remain alone."

"Yes, it did occur to me - and I discarded the notion almost immediately," Hardin replied. "I've seen you night after night, crying silently in your sleep, waking to take what comfort you can in the embrace of anyone willing to share your bed. And yet you keep them at arm's length, never letting them see your tears... After what I felt when your mind connected with mine last night, it made me all the more certain; deep down, you need to know that someone cares for you - for you, not for your power or your position! Sydney, I will not fault you for your tears, or your uncertainties... they make you real."

"What is it that you want from me?" Sydney asked him impatiently, tapping one metal claw upon the other arm. "We have a journey to make, and this is wasting our time."

Hardin sighed in frustration; Sydney was not being responsive at all. "I want you to let me in," he muttered. "Only a little, if that is all you would be comfortable with. I want to learn things about you that are not obvious to everyone. That is all."

"And if I tell you something about myself, can we end this discussion and move on?"

The suggestion of compromise surprised Hardin, for he had learned by now that Sydney never compromised, particularly when he was being pressured. "Well... yes," he agreed. This was a welcome bargain, and he was not going to ruin it by pushing for more.

"All right, then." Sydney paused, thinking for a moment. "When I was younger, I played the harp. It was a refuge of sorts... very calming."

Hardin blinked. That hadn't been the sort of personal information he'd meant, but it intrigued him nonetheless. It seemed bizarre at first that such an intense person as Sydney would have played such a peaceful, delicate instrument, but then upon trying to picture the mage sitting at a harp, he found the image surprisingly fitting - both he and a harp's music were elegant, richly layered, and terribly beautiful. Besides, he already looked angelic...

"I had to leave it behind when I left my home," Sydney continued. "Given the life I lead now, such a large musical instrument is unnecessary - just another thing to have to carry, and our burdens are already heavy enough. And besides, once I'd gotten these hands of mine," he added, glancing down at the tapping claw of his right hand, "it became next to impossible to play anything involving strings."

The mental image Hardin had changed abruptly as he pictured what would happen were Sydney to attempt it with his bladed hands, and he bit his lip suddenly. Noticing his discomfort, Sydney smiled. "Feel free to laugh, Hardin - it _is_ a rather amusing thought."

At Sydney's assurance, Hardin let himself chuckle. "Even so, it is a pity that you should be left unable to do something that once brought you joy."

The mage sobered. "I do miss it terribly sometimes," he admitted. "But it was perhaps the smallest sacrifice of those I have made."

Hardin knew how private Sydney was, and so he did not ask - Sydney had already offered a great deal more than he usually would. "I wish I'd been able to hear you play," was all he said.

Sydney's slight smile returned as he shrugged his shoulders faintly, then looked up to meet Hardin's eyes. "Now, can we move on?"

"Aye, that is what we agreed." As Sydney set out on his plotted course once again, Hardin waited for a moment before following, taking in the sight of the dappled sunlight catching Sydney's pale hair, and the unnatural grace of his artificial limbs as he walked. "Sydney?" Hardin said, lengthening his own stride to catch up.

Sydney glanced back at him, and Hardin found his face as distant as it had been before their conversation. It didn't bother him at all this time, though - he'd gotten Sydney to lower his barriers once already, and it was more than he'd expected. "Thank you."

Sydney simply nodded and continued on his way, silent once more.

He did not speak again until early the next morning, as the two of them returned to the schedule they had followed on their journey to the duke's manor, travelling through the night and making camp just before dawn. By this time, Hardin was accustomed to the routine; no words were necessary as they each carried out their own tasks - preparing the campsite, lighting the fire, and cooking a light meal with some of the supplies Maeta had given them just before their departure.

It was only after the fire had been doused, and they lay in their blankets in the dim light of approaching dawn, that the silence between them was broken. Hardin was restless despite being tired, listening idly to the smatterings of birdsong that erupted just before the sky began to lighten, when he heard Sydney's blankets rustle a short distance away. "Hardin?"

"Hmm?"

There was a pause. "It's a bit cold, is it not?"

"I suppose it is."

Sydney said nothing in response, and Hardin was left wondering what his point had been, until a short time later, the mage spoke again. "I was thinking... about what you said earlier."

"Hmm." It was nice to think that anything he'd said had actually gotten through, much less had occupied Sydney's thoughts. "And?"

Another pause, this time longer. "Perhaps it's only that I'm tired... or because my mind is still weak from having to endure _that place_, but..."

Hardin waited a moment before asking. "But what?"

"...Nothing much, I suppose. It's foolish."

His indecision was so severe that he sounded almost pained, and Hardin pitied him rather than being annoyed at his sudden change of heart. "Is it a sin in your faith to be foolish now and then?" he asked. "Only I and the gods are here to hear your words now - and I will not fault you for something said in a moment of weakness."

There was a faint sigh. "Weakness... yes. Unlike you or the gods, I can't abide it in myself, John."

His first name again. It seemed so much more intimate, particularly as even Hardin himself did not think of himself by that name anymore, and he smiled at it. "So although you're only a man, you are more demanding than the gods themselves," he pointed out.

Sydney gave a quiet laugh, almost silent. "I am," he murmured. "I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize - you wrong yourself, not I," Hardin told him, rolling to his side. The sky was a deep blue now, instead of the black of true night, and he could make out Sydney's delicate features in the dim light. "I'll ask for nothing that would hurt you, Sydney, but if it pains you to remain silent, then please... talk to me. I won't judge you."

"And besides, now you're curious."

Hardin nodded at the blunt words. "That also is true," he admitted.

Sydney remained lying on his back, staring up into the patches of lightening sky through the trees, and finally spoke. "I was thinking that... perhaps you are right."

"About?"

"...Perhaps I do want to be understood... by someone." He smiled a little, self-consciously, and shrugged his shoulders beneath the blanket. "The notion will pass, though - it is rare that I should think such a thing."

"That doesn't mean that you have to smother it when it comes," Hardin softly assured him. "Any time you wish to explain yourself, just speak to me - I..." He stopped abruptly, not wanting to pressure the mage. "I shall always be willing to hear you out."

"I know," Sydney murmured, and again he fell silent for a moment. "I don't believe I ever thanked you for last night's care."

"It was no trouble - think nothing of it," Hardin told him, rolling onto his back once more to regard the sky above them, just as Sydney was doing. He was beginning to wonder if, after his captivity, he would ever again _not_ find the simple sight of the open sky and the clouds to be a miracle.

"You enjoyed it, did you?"

Hardin chuckled at the straightforwardness of the question. "If you had not been in such pain, it would have been far more enjoyable. I'm afraid I was too worried about you to truly _enjoy_ it... but in a sense, yes."

He glanced over at Sydney to find the mage watching him, his face carefully expressionless. Suddenly he understood, and he decided to let Sydney's pride remain intact - in the last day, he had already made far more admissions than he was comfortable with. "You were right - it _is_ cold," he commented. "The chill seems to be seeping right through my blankets. It might be more pleasant for the both of us were we to share... May I, Sydney?"

Sydney nodded and smiled faintly, appreciative of Hardin's willingness to indulge him. "You may," he replied, as Hardin gathered up his own blankets to spread over the top of Sydney's.

Lying down next to the mage, Hardin took him into his arms as he'd done the night before, wrapping him in a perfectly chaste embrace. Although Hardin hadn't honestly been bothered much by the cold, the soft warmth of Sydney's body through the clothes they wore was a welcome addition to his own, and he tugged the blankets up to cover the two of them almost completely, preserving as much of that warmth as possible. "Ah, much better," the mage murmured against Hardin's shoulder. "Thank you, John..."

"No need for thank yous," Hardin assured him with a yawn. "You'll keep me warm as well..."

He could feel the slight puff of breath against his chest, as Sydney gave an inaudible chuckle. "Indeed."

* * *

After Sydney's admission, the rest of their journey was far more pleasant than it had been on their way to the duke's manor. Though not many words passed between them, it didn't seem to matter so much - Sydney seemed much more accessible and familiar to Hardin, now that he had been granted the freedom to simply... touch him.

Physically, it went no further over the next days, despite the fact that they had the privacy which they'd both wished for only a handful of days past. At times, when they stopped for a quick meal, moments of tenderness would pass between them - the resting of metal hand upon leather-clad arm, or a moment of eye contact that seemed to stretch on forever - but Hardin wasn't sure what was allowed of him, and before long, Sydney withdrew into his emotional isolation again.

It was all right, though - he almost certainly must have had a difficult life, Hardin thought - likely more difficult than his own. Sydney never spoke of his family or homelands, and then there were the arms... Even if Hardin had lost everything else in his life, at least his body was intact. And at least he didn't have the burden of prophecy to deal with - often he wondered what the gods might have shown Sydney of his own future, that he would be so haunted.

There were a million reasons a man such as Sydney might hide himself away, and so it was a blessing even for Hardin to lie beside him in the vague light before dawn, lying against the unnatural stiffness of his metal arm, drifting off to sleep to the gently pulsing rhythm of his breathing, and waking to find him still fast asleep. The tears Hardin had seen before never came again, though, as often as he woke and watched. Sydney was at peace, and therefore Hardin was as well.

Just as he'd feared, however, it could not last forever. He'd prayed fervently to the gods whom he'd only so recently become acquainted with, that they would have mercy on their prophet and allow him rest without the terrible visions - in his arms, Sydney seemed so delicate that he could not help but feel protective - and for a time they seemed to be listening. Even his own nightmares subsided, giving way to more normal dreams: jumbled, vague, and forgotten only moments after waking.

Then one day, he woke at mid-day to find his arms empty.

Even in such a short time, he'd become accustomed to the feel of Sydney beside him when he awoke, and the abrupt absence surprised him. Sitting up drowsily, he took a glance around the small clearing they'd made amongst the thick brush, but Sydney was nowhere to be seen. Still half-asleep, he was already standing up to go look for the mage when he recalled that he didn't have to.

Still shaking his head in exasperation with himself, he concentrated on Sydney, and found him a short distance off, beyond the bushes they'd concealed themselves in for the night. Immediately he knew something was strange by the way that Sydney was posed - sitting down upon his heels and hunched over. One arm was wrapped around his knees, holding them tight against his chest, while the other swished back and forth, the blades slicing the earth in idle lines and circles. The intense look upon the mage's face, when Hardin's phantom self knelt down to get a better look, only confirmed his suspicions: Something was not right.

Physically this time, he sought out the place where Sydney crouched, and the mage looked up at the sound of rustling brush as he approached. "Ah, you are awake. We must depart, Hardin."

There outside the thickest of the forest, the bright sunlight of daytime made Hardin squint; he was now accustomed to sleeping through it while on the road. "Now, Sydney? In broad daylight?"

"Now." Sydney stood, giving Hardin a look that made him flinch, though the intensity was not actually directed at him. "Set about gathering our things."

He stalked back towards their small camp, and Hardin obediently followed. "You've seen something, haven't you?"

"Quite observant," Sydney muttered as he began to roll up his blankets for packing. "We are close to one of the brethren's small parties, and we must reach them immediately."

Hardin decided to take the time to put on a fresh shirt before replacing his own equipment in his pack. "Would you mind telling me what this is about?"

"There is no point in discussing it," Sydney told him. "Save your breath, Hardin - you shall need it before this day is through."

"As you wish, then," Hardin agreed reluctantly - he was extremely curious about what the mage might have seen, but if what Sydney said was true, that was a good enough reason for him, particularly as he'd not gotten as much sleep as usual. The look on Sydney's face, though, worried him. "But Sydney," he added, "what of you? Are you all right?"

"Does it matter?" The mage furiously tugged at the straps on his pack, drawing them tighter, and his face darkened as a careless claw severed one halfway. With an almost feral growl, he hurled the pack away from him, narrowly missing Hardin's head before it landed in a nearby bush. His anger still not sated, Sydney swung his fist around to strike the tree behind him, and bits of shattered bark went flying at the impact.

Hardin's heart went out to Sydney as he sunk down beside the damaged tree, head in hands. "...Yes," Hardin replied softly, only momentarily taken back by Sydney's tantrum. "Yes, it does."

Sydney did not even look up, shaking with frustration. Hardin began to kneel beside him, to reach out and hold him, but was forced to jump back by another sudden angry swipe of metal claws. "Don't touch me, Hardin." The words were bitter poison, the dark eyes peering through blonde bangs like shards of ice. "It does _not_ matter. Collect your things."

Much to his surprise, Hardin found himself swallowing hard before he could respond. "Y... yes, Sydney," he mumbled quickly, pulling himself away from that cold stare. Sydney would not really have struck him, would he, he wondered nervously as he finished packing their belongings. Especially not now, and Sydney had never hurt him before... aside from that single time, the night before Padric's death...

That was it, he realized. He knew he'd seen that look of pure, almost maddened fury in Sydney's eyes before, and in much the same context. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Sydney still huddled against the base of the tree, his head buried in his arms. Yes - whatever he'd seen had to be nearly as terrible as that vision, if not worse. Someone was going to die, if they were not already dead, and the only question was who.

Having finished packing, he went to Sydney's side, wondering if he dared try to console the mage again. Sydney rose abruptly before he'd had the chance to make up his mind, and retrieved the pack he'd flung away in anger. "We must hurry," he stated, turning back to Hardin. His face was again carefully blank, but in the eyes, rage still smoldered. "We are late already."

"...For...?"

Sydney had already turned in a flutter of dark cloth, stalking off to the east, heedless of the branches and brush cracking in his wake as he pushed them aside. Before, they'd always been careful not to leave an obvious trail for anyone to follow, but apparently speed was now more important than stealth, Hardin observed as he hurried to follow before he lost sight of Sydney.

Though he'd been slowly building himself up over the past months, and by this time was nearly as strong as he'd ever been, Hardin found it difficult to keep up with the mage. Impatience and anger were driving him onwards at a swift pace, though his grace remained in such a way that he didn't appear to be in much of a hurry at all. As the afternoon passed. Hardin found himself breathing heavily with the exertion and trailing behind by several paces, but he was not going to ask Sydney to wait while he caught his breath.

Focusing most of his attention on the simple task of not falling too far behind, Hardin almost didn't hear the sound of snapping twigs and the rustling of leaves somewhere ahead of them, and when he did, he barely had the breath to softly call out a warning to Sydney that someone else was coming - and quickly, at the sound of it. Sydney paid it no mind though, and continued onward, halting only when a small, slight figure emerged from the underbrush just a short distance beyond him, quickly followed by a taller one.

"Sydney!"

"Oh, thank the gods we've found you..."

The exhausted declaration came from Branla, who nearly collapsed against Sydney as his arms surrounded her, but pulled herself together enough to stand straight again, accepting a brief kiss from his lips before he moved on to regard Kirrienne. The blonde's dress was ragged and worn, and she did not seem to be in much better shape herself as Sydney gathered her into his arms, stroking wayward locks of her hair as she sobbed into his shoulder. Whatever had happened, at least she was safe, Hardin thought as he looked on awkwardly.

After a few moments, her sobs subsided, and Sydney turned her aside, leading her a short distance away so that they could speak privately. He appeared to ask her a question, but she shook her head, trembling hands covering her face helplessly. Sydney gently caught Kirrienne's wrists in his hands, holding her still as he spoke soft, reassuring words into her teary eyes. She murmured something in response, breaking down again, and Sydney shook his head, again offering quiet, urgent words of assurance. It was a complete turnaround from the impatience he'd shown Hardin, and he couldn't help but feel a bit jealous - why was the mage so cold to him when the situation had made itself known, but so kind to her?

Branla seemed perfectly calm as she stood by, watching the exchange with little interest, and Hardin was baffled. "Branla, what happened?" he asked.

She looked up at him listlessly. "Oh... Hardin. I'm sorry, I... heh." She shook her head wearily. "We've not slept for the last two days... the knights are on the rampage, it seems. Did you know that the church dared to pin the burning of Fentegel on Müllenkamp?"

"What in the hell...?" Hardin was furious. "What reason do they give? Why do they claim Sydney would burn a village?"

The young woman laughed bitterly. "What reason do they need? All they need say is 'he is evil', and the entire nation would readily turn against him. And, in turn, against us."

"So they've been pursuing you, then."

"Aye... Any battle of significant size wears a spellcaster down little by little, and we'd been trying to shake a squadron of the scoundrels nearly since you and Sydney left us. Only a day ago, Jared and Theonas told us to go on ahead - that they would... distract them, hold them as long as they could, while Kirri and I escaped... She is not strong in the Dark, nor is she acquainted with any manner of weaponry, so we protect her."

So that was why Kirrienne was so upset, Hardin thought - her friends had given their lives. "But it did not help much," he concluded.

"Nay, it did not. Jared and Theonas took out many of them, but as soon as their attention was occupied, perhaps a half-dozen that were not involved ignored the skirmish entirely and continued to give chase. They haven't come close enough to do damage as of yet, but now, without sleep, I find I can't call the elements at all any longer. I'm not so good with a sword just yet, only a student... and so we have run. Not that there is much left within us to go on running with..." She sat down against a nearby tree, leaning back with a sigh. "Thank the gods we came upon you when we did - now Sydney will set things right. Though... I fear that this may be what they intended all along."

"What do you mean?"

"They were likely expecting that we would go running to Sydney when it became obvious we were outclassed," she explained. "And now we have led them straight to him... You heard the father's speech on the road from Leá Monde - they care nothing for us. Sydney is their true prey, and we... we are merely the squirrels they encounter while they are on their foxhunt. It would explain why they have not overtaken us, for certainly trained soldiers should be quicker than Kirri and I." She shook her head in resignation. "I should have realized this before, but now it is too late."

Hardin sighed in frustration; it disgusted him to think that the people who would do such things were revered throughout the land for their justice and their righteousness. "By the gods..." he muttered. "If they show themselves now, I shall show them just how dangerous a 'squirrel' can be."

As they were talking, he had still kept his eyes on Kirrienne and Sydney. The woman had calmed a great deal as she listened to the mage, and though he still clutched her hands in his own, she was nodding at his soothing words. Finally Sydney nodded as well, and reached out to her, giving her a light kiss upon the forehead before leading her beneath the tree where Hardin and Branla were speaking. "Take care of her, Hardin," Sydney instructed him, and Kirrienne reached out to take Hardin's hand in her own, still teary-eyed and fearful. "Take care of both of them, and I shall deal with this myself." Shrugging off the pack he carried, he carelessly dropped it beside Hardin. "Keep watch for our pursuers while they sleep - once Branla has rested, she should prove to be quite useful to you. I shall be gone for perhaps a few days."

Hardin was about to agree, when the last sentence caught him off guard and he stumbled over the words. "...A few days?" Hardin had expected that he was simply going to wipe out the last of the squadron, but that wouldn't have taken so long, considering what he'd seen on the road from Leá Monde. "What do you intend to do, Sydney?"

"What I must." As he loosened his sword in its sheath, the mage's matter-of-fact words carried rather ominous overtones.

"But Sydney!" Hardin protested. "A few days? I don't think-"

The mage's eyes met Hardin's, driving any thoughts of protest from his mind with their ferocity. "Do you defy me, Hardin? Or do you doubt me?"

Hardin shook his head, unnerved by the icy anger in Sydney's eyes and his voice. "No, neither," he said quickly. He knew that Sydney could take care of himself, but if the knights truly were prowling, Hardin wasn't sure he could hold them off alone with only his sword, were they to come upon him before Branla had rested sufficiently to use her magic. "I... I doubt myself," he admitted.

"Then you doubt my judgment." With that, Sydney turned to leave, the dark cloak flowing behind him in the breeze.

Hardin stared after him in disbelief. "Sydney!" he called out after the mage, but there was no response. Hardin couldn't fathom it - only a few hours before, this same man who was carelessly leaving him amidst his doubts had been curled in his arms, asleep. How could Sydney go from being so close to so cold in such a short period of time?

He couldn't understand it. He _needed_ that understanding, and so despite his mind telling him firmly to stay where he was and do as Sydney had asked, as vague as that was, his heart caused him to do something else entirely.

With a quick nod of apology to the women, he hurried off after Sydney, and caught up to him a short distance into the trees. The mage paused, turning slightly at his approach. "Sydney," Hardin repeated. He opened his mouth to say more, but was unsure of what, precisely, he intended to ask.

"This is not about my instructions to you," Sydney observed.

He asked the only question he could think of that seemed appropriate. "Why do you do this to me? You know that I..."

"Am uncertain?" Sydney finished his sentence. "Or I know that you need me?"

Hardin was unsure of the answer himself. "Both, perhaps..."

Sydney regarded him with cold eyes, but gave no answer. Hardin was about to repeat his plea for an answer, when one metal hand snaked out from beneath Sydney's dark cloak, taking him by surprise as it gripped the front of his shirt. He was too surprised to react when Sydney pulled him closer, bending him down to kiss him.

Soft lips pressed tenderly against his for the space of a few heartbeats, and then Sydney released his grip, turning to leave once again as Hardin stared at him in surprise. "We've no time for this," the mage said firmly, not even bothering to look over his shoulder at the man he addressed.

Breathless, Hardin nearly raised a hand to his lips, wondering if such an odd thing had truly taken place at all. But that was exactly what Sydney had likely intended to do, he realized - throw him off balance. "Is that it, then, Sydney?" Hardin called after him, suddenly furious. "Does this make it all right?"

The dark figure disappeared amidst the trees, never having responded.

He would have done a fair amount of cursing once the mage had vanished, if he had not needed to return to Kirrienne and Branla. After days of comfortable companionship, and finally allowing Hardin some of the closeness that he craved - that they both craved, he now knew - Sydney had left him with barely a word, not even sparing the time to give him any real instruction. He didn't even know what he was to do for those few days until Sydney's return.

And it irritated him to no end that despite the fact he knew for certain that Sydney bore him no malice, just a certain look in his dark eyes could still put the fear of the gods into him.

He had other things to think about, though; Kirrienne was still pale and anxious, her hand intertwined with his once more as soon as he'd returned. He sighed in resignation and patted it absently with his free hand, in what he hoped was a comforting manner. Considering the mood he was in, he couldn't be sure. "As he said, you two should rest. I'll keep watch."

Branla nodded and began to untie the roll of blankets she carried, but Kirrienne shivered. "Hardin... I don't think I can sleep..."

"From the look upon your face, I don't think you can help but sleep," he commented. "Come - I'll help you lay out your bedding, over here." The small hollow within the particularly thick growth of bushes and small trees had caught his eye earlier, as it made for an excellent hiding place, even if it was a bit dirty. With any luck, even if the knights did come upon them while the two women slept, he thought that perhaps they would not be found even if he was. If such an occasion did arise, he would get as far away from them as possible before he fell to the knights' blades. A pessimistic thought, perhaps, but considering the situation Sydney had dropped him into, he had to think like a good soldier and consider all the possibilities.

Kirrienne followed obediently as he bent the brush back for her to pass without breaking the limbs and leaving an obvious mark of passage. "Indeed, all I want to do is lie down and close my eyes," she admitted as he went to kneel beside Branla, who had already pulled her own blankets from the roll. "But... I keep thinking about Jared and Theodas..."

"I know," he cut her off. "Branla told me. These things happen - you told me that yourself."

"Yes, I remember," she said with a shaky laugh. "Even so..."

He nodded, not looking up from the blankets he was smoothing out at her feet. "I understand. Regardless, you need to sleep... and things may seem more clear once you've gotten some rest, trust me." Branla was already finished with her own blankets, he discovered when he glanced over, feeling a little odd at speaking comforting words to Kirrienne and yet none to her, when the smaller woman had been through the same. "And is all well with you, Branla? Is there anything you would have me do?"

She shook her head mechanically. "I need no kindnesses now - I fear I'm so tired I would not appreciate them anyhow," she added with a faint smile as she slipped beneath her covers. "But thank you."

"Hardin...?" He turned back to the tall blonde, and found her looking anxious. "While you're keeping watch... please be careful. It's dangerous to be walking about all alone, with the Blades nearby..."

He nodded again. "I will be." Something occurred to him then, and he chuckled. "In fact, you've no need to worry - I can keep watch for some distance around us without moving from this spot. Go on, lie down."

She did so, joining Branla, who already appeared to be dozing off. "Your talent, then...?"

"Ah, yes..." Hardin replied, sitting down beside her. "I suppose we haven't spoken of the powers that the Dark granted me, have we?"

They talked for a bit longer, speaking quietly so as not to disturb Branla, until finally Kirrienne was calm enough to close her eyes and sleep. This left Hardin alone with his thoughts, and this did not please him one bit after Sydney's sudden departure and the sharp words he'd left behind, despite the kiss. In fact, that had made him all the more confused. It might have been the last time he'd see the mage, considering the danger they were in now, and Sydney had to know that as well...

Well, perhaps he knew otherwise, Hardin told himself. Perhaps Sydney was unafraid of leaving him to guard these two followers of his because he'd seen his future... hell, perhaps he'd seen him living to a fine old age, and thus knew that he was safe.

Or maybe he'd seen Hardin's imminent death, and could no more stop it than he could have stopped Padric's death. And maybe he was refusing to let himself believe he cared, because then it would hurt him all the more.

Or maybe he was analyzing too much, and Sydney simply trusted his judgment and abilities. The gods only knew.

His mind occupied with thoughts of Sydney, as well as his watch upon the surrounding area as he scryed the perimeter, it took him a moment before he noticed the eerie feeling of someone's eyes on him. Glancing around with his normal sight, he found Branla regarding him seriously from her place on the other side of Kirrienne. "You're a kind man, Hardin."

"Thank you," he replied after a moment's startled hesitation.

She smiled faintly at him. "He'll be fine, you know," she murmured, eyeing Kirrienne to make sure her words did not awaken the blonde, "and I'm certain we shall as well. He seems to trust you a great deal."

"Or he had no choice," Hardin muttered.

"I doubt that. I think he would have stayed with us himself if he did not have complete faith that you could protect us," the raven-haired woman pointed out. She raised herself up a bit, leaning upon one elbow to look at him curiously. "You care a great deal for him, do you not?"

Hardin looked at her sharply, his eyes narrowing at the unexpected question, and recalled that the two had been heading straight for himself and Sydney when they encountered each other. It was no coincidence, he'd have wagered. "I don't appreciate your kind spying upon my thoughts," he told her firmly.

She shook her head. "I am no heartseer, Hardin. It was plain upon your face as you watched him leave, then went chasing after him like a lovesick youth, only to return looking thoroughly distracted." Giving him a sly smile, she peered at him a little closer. "So, have you shared his bed?"

Hardin froze, barely refraining from exclaiming a denial. "...You should be sleeping," he said finally, uncertain of what he could say that would be neither misleading or a lie.

"My mind is still racing from all that has happened," she told him quietly. "I'm sure you know how it is, being a soldier - you cannot go from fighting or fleeing to sleeping so easily... or perhaps, being more of a soldier than I, it has become an easy thing for you. At any rate, I care little whether you have or not - I was simply curious. I've lain with him myself, you know, and I do not find it shameful."

Of course she would not know that he had already known, that he had seen him asleep in her arms many weeks before. "That's different, for you're a woman. It's... well, natural."

She smirked a bit at his words. "Not so natural as you would think, I suppose - I've preferred women to men since I was quite young."

"...Oh." That thought certainly had never occurred to him.

Her smirk subsided a little as her face grew serious. "Until I met Sydney, in every man I saw the faces of those who abused me in my youth. I could not look upon them with civility, let alone desire. Sydney has... healed me, you could say, though the scars remain. I don't imagine I'll ever find myself drawn to a man."

"And yet, you and Sydney...?"

"I suppose I never considered Sydney to be 'a man', precisely," she mused. "He is simply... Sydney. A singular being. Perhaps it would be easier on you if you thought of him the same way."

"I'm afraid I'm not so open-minded as you are," he admitted. In fact, his mind was still turning over the idea that Branla was... He shook his head; it wasn't any of his concern. "He is a man, after all."

She raised an eyebrow. "So you _have_ shared his bed - otherwise you would not know for certain, would you?" At his dour look, she gave him a softer smile. "Only teasing, Hardin. Either way, this is irrelevant. What I mean to say is that I know you care for him. Though I know not what you think of our gods, have faith in him. If you cannot trust him, why would you care for him?"

"The gods only know," he muttered. After the way Sydney had left him so coldly, that question was once again pushed to the front of Hardin's mind, though he'd thought it answered by the mage's more vulnerable moments in the last few days.

Branla gave him a sympathetic look. "Listen, Hardin - it is obvious that he trusts you, or he would not have left us in your charge. If he trusts you, that is good enough for me, and I shall trust you as well. His judgment has always been flawless in the past."

Actually, it hadn't, and Hardin knew how Sydney second-guessed his decisions, the way he berated himself for not making precisely the right move at precisely the right time - the night of the spring festival had shown him that, as had the burning of Fentegel. But if not flawless, his judgment was the best that could be managed for anyone who was not omniscient, and he nodded. "It doesn't matter," he added. "What's done is done, and I can change nothing. Sleep, Branla... I will keep watch as I was told."

She nodded. "I shall try. And Hardin...?" she added. "Thank you for doing this, when you are not even one of us."

"That doesn't matter," he assured her. "You are in need of help, and so I shall help you."

And besides, _he_ had told him to. Hardin didn't like to think that that was the reason he was sitting in the dirt, alone with his anxiety - he'd have aided Kirrienne and Branla no matter who they were, for they needed someone to protect them - but he couldn't deny that things might have been better for all of them if he'd simply had the nerve to tell Sydney that he would not do as asked, that Sydney needed to remain with them himself, to offer better protection than he could. But no - a mere look, and he'd been completely disarmed. And the kiss... gods, did Sydney honestly think that he could be bought off with a kiss?

This was not going to happen again, he vowed. The next time Sydney tried to bully or entice him into doing something, he would stand up to him.

Between his anxiety and his anger, Hardin was beginning to hope that the knights _would_ stumble across him; he would have welcomed an excuse to use his sword.


	14. Beyond the Reach of Ties

Evening turned into night, and with the darkness, a sense of relief settled over Hardin as he sat alone, keeping his watch over the area. The knights would almost certainly not be prowling the area after dusk - they must know that those allied with the Dark had a distinct advantage over them when it came to navigating the blackness of night - and so they were likely safe until dawn. Kirrienne and Branla would probably wake not long after, and though Kirrienne might not be strong in the Dark, Branla's magic would make her a valuable ally. That would make the situation far less precarious for them all.

During the hours of daylight, Hardin's thoughts had been occupied with brainstorming defensive strategies, maneuvers that might prove effective if the knights had come near while the two women were still asleep, and he had to admit that he'd come up with nothing that would not likely have gotten him killed, and offered chances little better for his charges. But now that the blackness of night had bought them some time, and he knew that soon he would not be forced to fight off any attackers alone, more strategies were open to him.

He'd have to find out what precisely Branla and Kirrienne could do, he thought, as soon as they awakened. His own talent was not something that was useful in a battle, but some of those he'd witnessed in others among the brethren - illusions, levitation, even mindspeak - could definitely be used to their advantage. Before their battle with the templars, Branla had spoken of summoning; if she could summon as Sydney could, then that would make things much easier on them. And even if Kirri could cast only a few of the simplest spells, that too could be a help in a desperate situation.

Even so, he would have to wait to plot anything definite out - it would do no good to get ahead of himself, particularly when he knew so little of how the Dark and the magic worked. He might just end up formulating the perfect strategy, only to have it all be for naught when Branla informed him of something he hadn't known about what her limits were.

But then, the alternative to thinking about battle tactics was thinking about something else, and this was not something he wanted to do. Concealed in a hiding place much like those he'd slumbered in during the last few days, thoughts of Sydney came readily to mind. He missed the mage and all his silent companionship, despite the ruthless parting. He missed having the warmth of Sydney's thin frame lying at his side, the silky feel of fine hair spread across his shoulder, the unusual angles of a metal elbow pressed against his stomach, moving slightly in and out as light breaths fell upon his neck, lulling him to sleep.

Was it really so bad, he wondered, that Sydney had left him in such a way? It had been harsh, certainly, and very much unwelcome, but he knew by now that behind those cold eyes lay far more than the mage ever dared show. He may have been self-absorbed, heedless of Hardin's wishes, but it was not the same as selfishness. He must have had a reason...

_Or maybe I just miss him. Damn it._

If he did have a reason, he could at least have taken a moment to explain himself better, or offer something more supportive than a kiss that was not reflected in his eyes. Even if he did trust Hardin to handle everything well, he had to know that Hardin did not share that assessment.

There was too much to think about. Instead of dwelling on it, Hardin forced himself to concentrate instead on his scrying. After hours of doing just this, he knew the surrounding area well, and since there was not much chance of danger, he occupied his thoughts with counting the paces that he was not actually making, as his spiritual avatar made the rounds. Then, after discovering himself nodding off, he thought better of the idea and opted to physically pace the area instead.

It was interesting, he thought, that in a sense it was safer to keep the rounds with the Sight. While scrying, he made no sounds or movements that could be detected by their pursuers, and he could be close to the two women should anything happen, no matter which direction the enemy might attack from, rather than chancing to be on the opposite side. That inspired an idea that intrigued him, and with a little effort and a lot of concentration, he found that he could indeed do what had just occurred to him; walking the south end of his chosen path, he scryed to the north, and watched the east with the Sight as his physical body circled up to the west. In essence, he could perform a double watch by himself, and on opposite sides of the camp. This amused him for a while - it was a shame that he'd not had such a talent back in his days with the PeaceGuard, for it could have proved incredibly useful.

He scryed upon the camp now and then as well, and upon discovering that Branla was awake, returned. She barely looked up at the rustling of the brush as he entered the small hollow. "Have you rested sufficiently?" he asked.

"Most likely not," she admitted with a shrug, keeping her voice low to avoid waking Kirrienne, "but I have rested. It is difficult to sleep for any length of time when you've become used to being pursued."

Hardin could relate to that too much, but he merely nodded. "Go back to sleep if you like. We should be safe here until daybreak at least - and honestly, perhaps it would be safest if we remained as still as possible until Sydney returns. We probably have food enough, if we ration it carefully, since he left..." Hardin frowned as a thought occurred to him; Sydney had left his pack, and so had taken no food with him.

Branla laughed quietly, following his logic. "Hardin, if he can take a sword through the chest and stand again, I imagine that he can go a day or so without food - even if he cannot use his wits to find some for himself."

"True enough." Glancing around, he found the stars were vanishing into the deep blue of the lightening sky, and he realized abruptly that it nearly _was_ daybreak. "The knights may be on the prowl again soon. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to know exactly what you are capable of - your magic, your swordsmanship, and whatever talent the Dark has granted you. If the enemy comes upon us, they may well outnumber us, and if so, we will need whatever tricks or skills we possess."

"I supposed you'd get around to asking eventually," Branla mused, rising to stretch a little. "I believe I told you before, I am only a novice when it comes to the sword - perhaps you'd be willing to teach me a few things?"

"I'll consider it, if we survive this. Which means I'd appreciate you simply answering the questions, so we may better our chances."

The gruff rebuke made her laugh a little. "Naturally. As for magic, I've got a fair amount of talent, particularly in the elements of Light and Dark. You've already seen what I can do, of course: spells of healing, spells of destruction, a little boost for a fighter's physical strength. And, of course, you have seen how much I can manage before I tire."

"So that is all you can do?"

She regarded him with an amused look. "Is that not enough?"

"I hope that it is." Hardin shifted where he sat, to look at her as she seated herself again. "My meaning was... you mentioned summoning. Can you summon? Or..." He was such a novice in this area, he wasn't sure what to ask. "Or... do anything else through the Dark?"

At the mention of summoning, she shook her head. "Summoning is not a task most people can manage, for it takes great strength of will and a proper heart. I'm not sure if any now among us besides Sydney can call forth the Dark's minions... However, my talent has often been useful - I can speak with animals, in a way not unlike the mindspeak. That was how Kirri and I knew where to find you and Sydney, and how we knew we were being pursued, though we remained out of visual range."

Hardin had never heard of that talent before, and he thought it over for a moment. It could indeed be useful, he decided. "You can ask them to do things for you? To scout or spy?"

"Within reason. They will not act against instinct, and just as people do, sometimes they simply do not feel like answering your requests - I've met some very self-absorbed squirrels."

At first Hardin almost asked her to stop the joking, but then it occurred to him that she might actually be serious. Ever since he'd happened across Müllenkamp, he'd found that the world was considerably stranger than he'd ever imagined. Intrigued, he caught himself about to ask how exactly their thoughts were ordered, then realized it was irrelevant and forced himself to move on. "You said before that Kirrienne is not strong in the Dark. Does she have any magical ability at all?" That perhaps sounded intrusive, if not outright rude, and he amended it quickly. "Or is it inappropriate to ask such a question of anyone but her?"

"Some might say that it is," Branla replied, "but I do not think Kirri would mind. It is nigh impossible that anyone should have no magical ability whatsoever. In truth, magic is as innate a part of our being as physical strength, which we all have to a greater or lesser degree, though most do not recognize or cultivate the former as they do the latter."

Hardin nodded; he'd learned this much from Sydney's lessons. "So she can cast some spells, then?"

"Some simple ones, yes. Nothing that could be used to attack an enemy outright."

The blonde at her side stirred, and Branla looked down with a smile. "Ah, she must have heard us talking about her in her dreams. Good morning, Kirri."

Rubbing her eyes, Kirrienne yawned and sat up, momentarily startled at the sight of Hardin. "Oh... yes. I'd forgotten..." Even in the dim light, Hardin could see that she was already beginning to look tense again, at the reminder of their situation, but she put on a brave smile. "I slept well, Hardin - thank you for guarding us."

"It was no trouble." Not that he'd had a choice, really, but nothing _had_ gone wrong, so he supposed it was an honest enough statement. "Kirrienne, if you're willing, I need to ask you a few questions, so that I might better know what we could do, should the knights come upon us..." She nodded in agreement, and so he continued. "First, what kinds of magic can you use?"

"Nothing spectacular, I'm afraid," she admitted, "but I can heal a wound or cleanse the body of poisons... not very useful, when I know enough of herb lore to do the same without the use of magic." She thought for a moment, then frowned thoughtfully. "Long ago, I learned a spell or two that could weaken a man or cause his armor to rust... but I have not used such spells in many years. When the brethren come under attack, I've merely stayed behind the fighters and mages, replenishing their strength and magic when they retreated for a moment, more often with potions than with spells."

"Potions?" Gods - once he'd thought Kirrienne the closest thing to a normal woman he might find in this new life of his, and even _she_ made potions, like some witch out of a children's tale?

"Well, yes - I was an herbalist before I took up with Sydney, and so I already knew how to distill the essence of useful plants into medicines. After having joined the brethren, I learned of certain plants that renew mind and body... and distilled, the resulting draught is far more effective and less dangerous than the raw material."

There was something Hardin could use. "Do you know if these plants might grow in this area?"

"I imagine they might," Kirrienne said thoughtfully. "In the lower-lying areas, most likely. A good idea, Hardin - I've been so preoccupied, I did not think to look."

Good - something that could buy them some extra time, at the least, Hardin thought as he turned back to Branla. "I don't suppose the local wildlife would know...?"

"They're naught but animals," Branla reminded him with a shrug. "Such complex thought is just a bit beyond them, I fear."

"Then we shall look ourselves," Hardin decided. "Branla, are there any creatures nearby that would be suited to the task of keeping watch?"

"A few sparrows... sparrows are usually cooperative."

Birds keeping watch - and sparrows, at that... Hardin could not help but shake his head in astonishment at how absurd it was, and yet how brilliant at the same time. "Well then... Kirrienne, if you are willing, let us go look for these plants of yours after we've had our breakfast. Branla, you'll stay with our belongings, just in case. If your sparrows see anyone approaching, give a shout - we will not go far."

"It sounds sensible enough to me."

Kirrienne had nodded, and was already unpacking the leftovers of the food Maeta had given Sydney before they left the manor. "If it gives us a better chance of staying alive until Sydney returns, then of course I'm willing." She paused for a moment, smiling at him. "I will not feel unsafe wandering around even in these woods, I think, with you accompanying me."

"I'm glad." He was going to have to find a way to explain to her, somehow, about why he was not particularly responsive to the looks she was giving him, or the hints she was dropping. But then, at the moment he had more important things to think about, and he put it out of his mind.

* * *

Hardin spent most of the time they spent eating their breakfast in distracted silence, and much of the time he accompanied Kirrienne on her search for the plants she'd spoken of as well, despite her attempts to make conversation. Understanding that he had a great deal on his mind, she was not put off in the least, for which Hardin was grateful. A possible strategy for their defense had occurred to him just after they'd set out deeper into the forest, and he was going over it from every angle, searching out the weak points and trying to determine precisely how it could be implemented to its full potential.

He'd have to wait until they were back at the camp, though, before they could give it a trial run, and so finally he forced himself to ask questions, and tried to remain attentive to what Kirrienne was doing and saying; if these plants did what she said they did, having the basic knowledge of them would be useful. Upon the sight of them, and Kirrienne's confirmation that they were indeed what she had been looking for, he was surprised. He had been told long ago that these plants were not safe to eat, but she assured him that this was only true if one did not know how much they could handle. This plant had been used in Müllenkamp's rituals for centuries, to increase sensitivity to the elements and stimulate the mind, and to prove it, she popped one of the roots she'd just plucked into her mouth and swallowed before Hardin could say a word to stop her. No ill effects seemed to be forthcoming, true, though her breath quickened a bit and her eyes took on a strange look for a short time. Hardin still had much to learn, he decided.

Once they had gathered a fair amount of the plants and returned to the camp, Hardin was able to explain the plan he'd been developing to the two women. At the start of his explanation, Branla looked rather skeptical, but by the end, she had to admit that it was not only brilliant, but rather amusing as well. After a great deal of troubleshooting and several trial runs, the three of them managed to get the specifics straightened out, and their timing was near perfect. It was a good thing, he thought as he pressed the heel of his palm against his temples, for he was beginning to develop quite a headache.

Until Kirrienne suggested that he sleep, it didn't occur to him that the reason for the headache was utter exhaustion - he'd been awake now for nearly an entire day. Even so, he was reluctant to sleep while the day was hot and the knights were almost certainly on the move, but Kirrienne insisted, threatening to pin him beneath his bedding herself if he didn't let himself rest. It was only after Branla's assurance that there were enough small animals in the area to give them plenty of warning if anyone approached from any direction, and pointing out that the first stage of their plan was more up to herself and Kirrienne in any case, that he finally agreed and lay down to close his eyes for a time.

It was not much later that he felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake once more, and opened his eyes to find Branla looking down at him grimly. "A small group of the Blades are approaching from the north," she informed him.

Immediately he reached out with the Sight and found them, roughly two hundred paces away. The six knights definitely appeared to be searching, slashing at the brush with their weapons and eyeing the bare ground for footprints, and though not in full plate, they wore armor of dyed and stiffened leather, and were unquestionably equipped for battle.

Snapping out of the viewing, Hardin looked up to see that Kirrienne was already ready for her part, for due to her particular innate talent, his dark cloak hung eerily in the air just to the west of the clearing, dragging upon the ground as it moved off to the distance they'd chosen, hovering a short way off the ground. That had been the hardest part to get right when they'd done their trial runs; Kirrienne's attempts to levitate his cloak had levitated the _entire_ garment, and that did not allow it to hang naturally. Finally they'd solved the problem by placing a small rock inside the hood of the cloak, and having Kirrienne concentrate on that instead, lifting the cloak by proxy. It was not perfect, but the knights were not going to get a good look at it anyhow, if all went as they'd planned.

"I have a few rabbits in place," Branla informed him, grinning. "They actually seem to be looking forward to this, the little rascals - so often they find themselves being chased by some creature or another, and never do their pursuers get what the rabbits think they deserve - but this time they shall! That in itself is enough incentive for them to aid us."

The repressed anger of small furry animals was simply too much for Hardin's groggy mind to wrap itself around, and so he simply rubbed the last of the sleep from his eyes and reached for his sword as he took another look at the approaching knights. "All right, it's almost time then... We don't have to get this perfect, I'll remind you - a man sees what he expects to see." With weapon in hand, he already felt much more awake, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "On my word..." With his physical eyes he saw the two women nod, and with the Sight he kept careful watch from just behind his hovering cloak, still hanging low to the ground. Indeed, Branla's rabbits were hunched nearby, ears swivelled behind them at the faint sound of rustling brush from the north, and their bodies tensed for flight. As the rustling grew audible to human ears as well, Hardin gave the order. "Go."

At his word, the rabbits took off running, crashing noisily through the brush as they angled to the southwest, straight away from the knights, who gave a shout as they saw the cloak rise and apparently begin to flee. Hardin mentally followed behind the hovering garment at a short distance, keeping his eyes mostly on the rabbits, and whispering corrections to Kirrienne as they dodged the trees and larger bushes in their path. "Left. Right. No, not that far - yes, that's it. Left."

The cloak followed in the wake of the rabbits' commotion, and the knights gave chase just as Hardin had expected them to. Before long, two of them pulled crossbows. Perfect. "Get ready to drop it," he whispered to Kirrienne, and she murmured quiet acknowledgement. "And Branla, are you ready?"

"Quite."

"All right then..." Turning his attention back to the hovering cloak and the pursuing knights, Hardin waited until a volley of bolts erupted, a few piercing the cloak. "...Now."

With Kirrienne's release, the cloak dropped to the ground, and the rabbits turned aside, disappearing quietly into the bushes. If what Branla had said was true, they were probably sitting in there to watch smugly, Hardin thought, and that vaguely disturbed him. "You can thank your rabbits, Branla - they did a wonderful job."

"It was no trouble - they enjoyed it," she whispered back. "Rabbits are pranksters by nature, you know."

Hardin was glad she'd not mentioned that before; if he'd known that, he'd have been worried that they might pull a fast one on them, and that would have been just one thing he'd have had to worry about. He shook his head in exasperation - being double-crossed by rabbits was the last thing he'd ever have considered even a day ago - and tensed to stand. "Branla..."

"Right." Branla had drawn her sword as well while they waited, and her grin had vanished into a look of intense concentration.

"Good luck, both of you," Kirrienne whispered anxiously, crouching down lower behind the bushes now that her part was finished.

Hardin gave her a nod. "Thank you. You know what to do, of course, if anything should happen..." It was her turn to nod - they'd been over this earlier as well - and Hardin turned his attention back to the knights, just now catching up to the fallen cloak. "Let's go."

Although she wasn't as well versed in woods lore as Hardin, Branla was light enough that she moved in near silence anyhow. Distracted by their "fallen prey", the knights were not paying any real attention, and it was an easy task to get closer, within the range of a spell. Hiding behind a tree, sword in hand, Branla gave Hardin a tense, brave nod, and he moved onward alone, circling around beside them. Of course, the knights were foolishly clustered together, he noted; he might not even have to show himself before they were all disposed of.

His back pressed against a nearby tree, he listened to the knights talking among themselves as he waited to make his move. Luckily, the one detail about the plan that left him wary apparently had caused no problems, for the knights knew more than he expected them to.

"Nay, the filth's dead, no doubt about it. If he could turn himself invisible, he'd never have let us see him to begin with."

"He's either dissolved, or he's fled," another knight pointed out, grimacing in disgust as he tucked the tip of his sword under the hood of the cloak, lifting the cloth to show his companions the holes from their crossbow bolts. "But with these... I'd put my money on dissolved."

"You know," the first said distastefully, "I hear they die like they do because of God's hatred for them. Their bodies are so full of the Dark's taint that they're not fit even for his worms to feed upon, and so he destroys them utterly; that is why they turn to Light."

"Ah, but I've heard that the Dark turns on anything weak," put in another. "At the first sign of injury, the Dark rushes in greedily to consume even its faithful servants, leaving only the tiny fragments of once-pure souls behind. 'Tis a sad thing, really - even they are victims in the end."

Some of his companions frowned at the near-sympathy, but before any of them could speak, tendrils of dark energy suddenly flowed forth into the midst of them, searing three of the knights and completely engulfing two more, who didn't even have time to scream before they hit the ground, lifeless. As the remaining Blades gave a startled shout, Hardin readied to strike. Another round of dark magic struck down a third knight as they scattered, and the three remaining closed in towards the source of the attack. Luckily, one of them had darted in such a direction that he passed just beside the tree Hardin had been hiding behind, and he easily stepped out to impale the Blade as he went by. The cry of the dying knight attracted the attention of the last two, one of whom fell victim to another spell from Branla while he was still distracted.

As for the last, he saw immediately that the larger threat came from the young woman who had just given away her location and rushed forward to attack before she could cast again. Instead of attempting it, Branla turned and ran, obviously aware that she didn't have the time for another spell. The knight was slow and clumsy in his rigid leathers, though, and between his superior mobility and longer legs, Hardin caught up to him long before he'd come close enough to strike Branla. Whirling, the knight lashed out with his sword, and Hardin blocked with his own, stopping the arc of the blade just short of his head.

It was up to him now, Hardin thought, for Branla would not cast a spell with him in such close proximity to their enemy; this was going to be a duel to the death. The Blade was better equipped and probably better trained, but he'd been caught off guard, whereas Hardin had been preparing for exactly this for the past few minutes. It evened the odds somewhat, and the two of them lunged and parried in a deadly exchange.

After a time, Hardin paused to collect himself as the knight did likewise. Both were breathing heavily, and Hardin took a moment to glance down at bare arms covered with small stinging gashes and scrapes he'd accumulated during the fight. He wished he had thought to grab his jacket before moving in, for the leather would have offered him more protection than the thin shirt he'd been sleeping in. It was too late now, however, and just as well, for he was already sweating and flushed from the exertion and the exhaustion.

The knight too had his share of shallow wounds, and no small amount of dents and slashes in his leather armor. Glaring out from below a bleeding gash across his forehead, the young man, not much older than Hardin himself and a hand and a half shorter, whirled his sword and set himself defensively. "So Müllenkamp isn't comprised entirely of cowards hiding behind their magic, after all," he panted. "So one of you understands a fair fight."

"None of us would need to hide behind anything, were we not being sought for the sake of prejudice and crimes we did not commit," Hardin replied, settling into a defensive stance as well.

The knight smirked. "You'd have to take that up with my commander - I simply do as I am told. And what I have been told is that you and your fellows are contaminating the land with violence and false teachings; therefore, you are to be cleansed."

"Us?" Hardin snorted. "The _brethren_ are contaminating the land with violence? Who was it who shot what they assumed to be a fleeing man in the back with their crossbows?"

"So that _was_ some trickery - not bad, at that. I'll refrain from asking how you managed it, for I don't want to taint my ears with the details of your obscene arts." With no warning, the knight lunged forward again, his sword swinging downward at Hardin's left knee.

Hardin jumped back in surprise, blocking, but not quickly enough to escape a deep gouge in his leg. It was not severe enough to hinder him, though, and he responded instinctively, spinning the sword back up to clash against the knight's, locking together only a finger's width from his face as the knight struck again. Turning the blade sideways, Hardin put his left hand upon the flat of it and pushed, knocking the knight off balance before he had a chance to set himself. As the knight stumbled backwards, Hardin aimed another blow at his side, and was only barely stopped in time as the knight made a weak block.

Not allowing him to recover, Hardin kept up the offensive, striking again and again, and occasionally hitting his mark, though never when it really would have counted for something. From most opponents, he'd have expected a frustrated, wild strike before too long, but one so well-trained as the knights knew to remain patient, to keep concentrating on defense until they had found an opening or the attacker had worn himself out. Fortunately, blocking Hardin's attacks seemed to be tiring the knight as quickly as Hardin was tiring himself, and his defense became weaker and more careless as their duel wore on. Yielding to the taller man's relentlessness, he gave up his ground repeatedly, backing away cautiously as Hardin persisted.

Finally, having driven the knight back for quite some distance, Hardin found his chance. Summoning up as much energy as he could muster, he attacked with new ferocity, sending the knight leaping backwards to avoid the blows. Unfortunately for the knight, a young fallen tree rested at calfs height just behind him, catching his leg and sending him sprawling to the ground, one knee still hooked over the slim trunk. Before he could right himself, Hardin had leapt over the obstacle and put his sword through the knight's armor and the heart beneath.

Still tense from the extended battle, he jerked his weapon free and instinctively raised it as he whirled towards the sound of approaching footsteps, but quickly enough found that it was only Branla. Lowering the sword, he smiled tiredly at the young woman. "Are you injured?"

"Not in the slightest," she replied, looking him over as he wiped the blood from his blade on the fallen knight's cloak. "You, however, have gathered quite the collection of wounds."

"Nothing serious," he told her, but she had already begun speaking the words of a spell. As on the road from Leá Monde, he felt the healing energy settle upon him, seeping into him and soothing away the stinging pain of myriad small injuries he hadn't even noticed until they were gone.

"This plan of yours seems to have worked quite nicely after all," she mused as he sagged against the trunk of a nearby tree, letting his weariness overtake him for a moment while he caught his breath. "And with no survivors to tell what has happened, we can indeed use it over and over again. Though I suppose I should tell you that you're a fool for allowing yourself to get caught in a duel with one of the Blades - you do know that they're one of the most highly trained forces in the kingdom, do you not?"

"What choice did I have?"

"You could have turned and run as soon as you got his attention away from me, leaving me enough space to use my magic against him. Honestly, Hardin, if you had gotten yourself killed by that knight, where would that leave Kirri and I?" she added with a fond smile as he pulled himself up again, eyeing her with mock exasperation before going to retrieve his cloak from the place where it had fallen. "I must say that I'm impressed, though - you stood up remarkably well against him, not backing down even for a moment." Her smile grew softer, and her voice quieter. "Your swordsmanship is on a level with Padric's, I would say, and I do not say it lightly."

"...I'm sure you would not." Thoughts of their old friend calmed him, and Hardin sheathed his sword. "Thank you."

"So then, what comes next?" Branla inquired. "Shall we find a way to dispose of the bodies, or leave them where they lie?"

"Leave them," Hardin said without hesitation; he'd been considering their next move since the conception of this plan. "We'll be moving on."

"Branla! Hardin!" The call from behind him cut off his explanation, and he turned to see Kirrienne approaching, a relieved smile upon her lips. "Everything went well? Neither of you is hurt?"

"A few minor cuts on my part," Hardin assured her, "but Branla's magic has already taken care of them."

Kirrienne gave the smaller woman a slightly exasperated frown. "Branla, you should have left it to me... your magic could be put to better use than a simple spell that even I can handle."

"Not at the moment," Branla pointed out. "It seems that there are no more Blades in the immediate area, so I should have plenty of time to regain my strength before it is needed again. And even if I do not, I still have the roots you gave me." Hardin had a few of the healing plants in a small sack at his waist as well, but still wary, he didn't intend to use them unless he was desperate.

"We'll be moving on," he repeated, continuing from where he'd left off. "If we stay here, even remaining undiscovered, someone might come across the bodies and become suspicious. And where could we dispose of them that they could not be stumbled across by someone searching diligently, as the knights already have been doing?"

"And Sydney should be able to find us again easily no matter where we go," Branla put in. "He found us before, after all."

Kirrienne nodded. "I'll go get our belongings together," she told them, hurrying back to the campsite.

Branla began to follow her, but Hardin called out softly for her to wait a moment. Something had just occurred to him as he'd stared down at the three burnt bodies that had surrounded his cloak. "Have you ever used a crossbow before?" he asked.

"Hmm... no," she admitted, looking down at the fallen knights as he was doing. Catching on, she lifted her eyes to his and gave him a mischievous smile. "I'm sure that Kirri and I could learn, given proper motivation. And this situation is nothing if not motivating."

"I thought you might say that." Kneeling down, Hardin smothered his revulsion at the smell of burnt flesh and appropriated the two weapons from where they had fallen, not far from the knights' fingers, and gathered their strappings and bolts as well. A moment later, he picked up the hand mace that the third knight had carried as well, and went to gather any weapons he could find from the other three. If they should come across any of the other brethren fleeing the knights, it would be wise to arm them as well. Besides, the knight he'd engaged had carried a much finer sword than the one he'd stolen from a prison guard, and Hardin hefted it in his hand, testing the weight and balance. Just as he'd suspected, it was near flawless, and he belted it to his own waist before handing one of the crossbows and the accompanying quiver over to Branla.

The young woman looked it over, peering at the mechanisms with interest before slipping the strap across her shoulder. "It doesn't look too difficult," she noted.

"It isn't. The real difficulty lies in aiming - judging distances, anticipating a moving target, allowing for the wind, and so on." Hesitating to think about it for a moment, he nodded to himself. "I'll teach the two of you as much as I can, when we find a new place to stay."

Seeing the way the young woman raised the weapon and stared down the haft appraisingly before replacing it on the leather strappings, Hardin decided he liked this idea a great deal.

* * *

It was a tense situation to be hunted, of course, but for once Hardin found himself feeling quite good despite his exhaustion. They had no real need to hurry, and in fact were moving slowly so that they might spy out an appropriate hiding place, so he taught the two women the basics of how to load, aim, and fire a crossbow while they walked. Practicing could be done while they were on the move as well, as they fired a short distance ahead of them, gathering the bolts as they went past without halting for more than a moment or two. Once they'd found a hollow beneath a small, crooked tree, which left them barely visible through the branches that hung down to the ground, they made camp again.

By this time it was growing late, and again Branla and Kirrienne insisted that Hardin get some sleep, as he'd been awakened earlier by the arrival of the Blades. It was like having a mother again, or perhaps two, he thought wryly as he yielded to their insistance. But then again, upon waking he spent an hour or so instructing Branla in swordplay as he'd promised, and that was not the sort of thing a mother would have done - at least, not where he came from.

The two women turned in for the night when they were through, but this time Hardin was not troubled as he sat and kept watch. This was something he was good at - something he could understand. Instructing others in the use of weapons, strategizing, scouting and keeping the night watch - he felt much more in his element than he had for the entire time he'd been with Müllenkamp. All the talk of magic, and the strange talents granted by the Dark, had been something completely foreign. He'd grown up with swords, crossbows, and the decisions of how and when to use them to their best advantage. In fact, it was almost a relief to make a meal almost entirely of the sour wild apples and greens that Kirrienne had gathered while he slept, for he'd scavenged the same plenty of times while in the field.

Another half dozen Blades wandered near the next morning, before they'd even finished eating their breakfast. This time, all three were awake and rested, and having already gone through the maneuver once before, they dispatched the Blades without the slightest difficulty. In fact, showing initiative that momentarily startled Hardin, Kirrienne dropped the last one with her crossbow as he tried to rush Hardin. Seeing the look of surprise on Hardin's face, she simply smiled and told him she'd had to - he was too important to risk losing in another duel.

As they moved on again, Hardin continued instructing the two women in the use of their weapons, scouting before and behind them with the Sight. They continued to improve their accuracy, and were unexpectedly given a chance to try their aim on moving targets - another handful of Blades crossed their path shortly after midday. Having been given advance warning by his unnatural means of scouting, Hardin borrowed Branla's crossbow as they ducked into the bushes, for unlike Kirrienne and himself, she had another projectile weapon in her magic. The knights fell almost instantly, and the three of them continued on without incident.

Hardin continued to gather the weapons of the knights they felled, opting to drop one of the bedrolls to make room in his pack. After all, someone was always awake to keep watch, so they never needed more than two at a time. And even if the weapons had no use at the moment, if nothing else, they could fetch a nice price with which to buy food for the brethren. Hardin knew from experience that there were plenty of traders who would not ask where the fine weapons had come from.

But something else was beginning to take shape in his mind, as he and his unlikely squadron dispatched party after party of trained knights with no trouble whatsoever. He was a fairly adept swordsman, but certainly no match for the Blades. Branla and Kirrienne had little experience with weapons at all. It was the magic and their talents that provided them with the advantage, and that combined with the indirectness of their approach made their physical attacks far more effective.

True, Sydney already used the tactic of swordplay combined with sorcery when the brethren came under attack... but seeing what just three people could do, only one of whom actually knew a great deal of magic, what could the brethren do all together if they took the initiative? Rather than scatter and run from the Blades and the king's men, could they not put an end to this corruption once and for all? These supposed upholders of justice not only slaughtered the helpless, but spread lies across the land - lies about the brethren... and they'd lied to Hardin personally, leaving him in a dungeon during the last precious days of his little brother's life. Though his grief had lessened considerably since he'd finally accepted Philip's death, he'd found that the frustration over his helplessness and the lies he'd been told still smoldered bitterly within.

As tired as he was from the running and fighting and not much sleeping, when they stopped for the night finally, and he took his rest before the two women, he merely feigned sleep. The ideas swirling in his mind would not stop, and that was fine with him. For once, they were not distressing thoughts of Sydney, but thoughts of what could be done to bring about a real change in the land. He would have to gather more knowledge first, of course, and there was no guarantee that anyone else would agree to do likewise, but the idea that he might be able to set at least some things right burned impatiently in his mind, leaving him restless.

It was just as well that he did not sleep, for not long after sunset, Branla's "scouts" reported more humans approaching - in fact coming straight towards them - and Kirrienne shook him out of his blankets to once more put their scheme into effect. It didn't overly surprise him that the knights had decided to pursue them by night now as well - he and the two women had killed several of their men by this time, and whoever was in charge would certainly have taken notice, even if they had not yet come across the bodies.

But the handful of people fumbling through the darkness were not knights after all, they discovered as Hardin invisibly followed their approach. They were primarily unarmed, and wore no armor - and after a moment, Hardin recognized them by their voices as other followers of Sydney's. Abandoning their stealth manuevers, he and the two women rose to meet them, showing them to the place they'd chosen for the night's stop.

Hardin's first question was whether any of them were familiar with any sort of weapon. Burchard had once carried a sword, while Adela professed to be handy enough with a bow, and so the appropriate weapons were taken from the pack Hardin carried. As for the other two, Landrik was a fairly accomplished mage - and the last was Henna, too frail for either battle or spellcasting. However, Hardin thought, she would serve another use, for it was her sensitivity to the minds of others which had allowed the others to find his small party when they drew close.

Now that they numbered seven rather than three - most armed, some with magical aptitude, and all with personal talents - there was little worry of them being overwhelmed by their foes, so long as they were not taken unaware. Between Hardin, Branla, and Henna, that was unlikely to happen. They no longer needed to take so much care of when they moved, or where they slept, for they had enough power and the proper tactics to take out half a dozen knights before they were even seen.

And this was where Henna entered into Hardin's idea. If she had found them by way of her familiarity with Branla and Kirrienne, perhaps she could lead them to others, and they might gather more of the brethren, increasing their power further. Six weapons still remained in Hardin's pack to be distributed to those who might be able to use them, or whoever might be trained to use them, and when they happened across another squadron of knights the next day, that number increased to eleven.

This was the third day since Sydney had left Kirrienne and Branla in Hardin's care, and Hardin wondered at the wisdom of having moved so much since that time. Sydney had said that he would return in a few days, but if Hardin was far from where they had parted ways, that might not be the case. It might take him a bit longer to find them... but the idea of being alone, without his guidance, didn't trouble Hardin nearly so much as it had initially. He'd managed this long - and now that their number had increased, and he'd been given the possibility of increasing it further, it seemed unlikely that Sydney's considerable magic was necessary for their defense at the moment. As for the other reasons he wished Sydney to return, now that Hardin was in command of what amounted to a small stealth team, he firmly told himself that he didn't have time to waste thinking about such things.

But, of course, he did anyhow. Now that he was not constantly on guard, worrying about their next move, his mind was sometimes freed to wander where it might. During the nights, when he took second watch, he found himself wondering where Sydney was and what he might be doing. Was he keeping watch over some of his followers as well? Or was he perhaps sleeping, his rest troubled by the visions that so often came to him? It pained Hardin to think that Sydney might be lying alone, silently crying in his sleep with no one to be his comfort when he woke.

The night after Henna found them, Hardin gave in to his curiosity just once, wondering if Sydney was close enough that he might find them soon. Sydney must have been some distance away, he decided, for it was difficult to get a definite fix as he scryed for Sydney's presence, and the vision was faint, almost blurred, when it came. Sydney was not sleeping, but neither did he appear to be going anywhere; he stood somewhere in the forest, one hand wrapped around the crook of a young tree as he gazed through the thin branches. His face held no expression, save for eyes that were vaguely troubled, and it seemed as though he was simply deep in thought.

Regardless, Hardin wished he had not looked. He hadn't been overly anxious before, but seeing Sydney again brought back all his former desires and frustrations. He let the vision remain, almost clinging to the sight of Sydney, wanting badly to reach out and touch the hair that blew with such grace in the gentle breeze. Until Henna startled him with her approach, coming to tell him that she sensed more of the brethren a short ways to the south, Hardin didn't recall that he was supposed to be keeping watch.

Thoroughly disgusted with his carelessness, Hardin mentally vowed that he would not do such a thing again, for he had far more important things to do than indulge his own selfish whims. After waking a few of those with him to go with Henna and meet their brethren, Hardin forced himself to return to his watch with renewed detail, examining every tree, every bush large enough for a man to hide within, through the Sight.

Now they were a party of ten, though they should have been twelve, had the knights not likely cut down two of the newcomers' group the evening before. The three Henna had sensed had simply run, while the two fighters with them had remained behind to cover them, just as had happened with Branla and Kirrienne's group, and they were weary and upset when they arrived. Henna said she felt no traces of anyone else following after them, and Hardin's anger grew deeper. As their number was still fairly small, and three were desperately in need of rest, he could not split them in two to go back and either rescue their companions or exact vengeance; all they could do was rub out their tracks to throw off their pursuers, and wait.

They remained where they were for much of that day, until Henna reported knights in the vicinity, off to the west and approaching quickly. The Sight confirmed that it was another half-dozen, and Hardin ordered the others to make ready for a quick assault. With so many, and another skilled spellcaster added just in the last night, even if the knights were not deceived by the trick with the cloak and the animals, they weren't likely to be much of a challenge.

Something was wrong, though, Henna told Hardin when he and the others returned after dispatching the squadron. These knights had felt more cautious, and yet more confident. It seemed that they knew what was happening, and Hardin nodded; considering the number of knights that they'd killed in the past few days, it was not surprising that whoever led the hunt had spread the word when so many had either not returned or been found dead and stripped of weapons. It was also not surprising that they might have intensified their search, concentrating their numbers upon the surrounding area, which probably was the reason behind these last knights' confidence.

This did nothing to increase Hardin's confidence, of course. Though he would have liked very much to turn southwest in search of the two missing brethren, he was no fool. When they moved on, this time it was to the east - back towards the direction where he had last seen Sydney.


	15. The Moment is at Hand

The brethren moved swiftly through the forests, as Hardin had decided to forego silence in favor of speed. Those guarding the rear still carried leafy branches in one hand, swishing them back and forth across the ground to quickly disguise their tracks to casual observers, at least, but by now their number was great enough that anyone close enough to hear their movements was likely to have seen them as well - after all, they did not have the proper garb for hiding in the forest. Hardin had decided he'd have to mention that to Sydney some time ago; if there was enough money after buying food, they might want to invest in something a bit safer to wear while hiding from the knights.

For it seemed unlikely that the Blades were going to give up anytime soon, Hardin thought in frustration as they angled north to avoid the third party of knights that he, Henna, and Branla had discovered in their vicinity by midday. Had they still been hunting six at a time, he'd have simply ordered the brethren onward to meet them in battle, but the knights now travelled in parties of ten, or sometimes twelve. As there were some with him that could not defend themselves in a melee, Hardin did not want to risk it - especially when they had set out hours before dawn, and some were already weary.

The important thing was to reach Sydney. It might not have been an answer to all their problems, and he knew it, but he had faith in Sydney. Sydney had the knowledge and the power to make a better decision on their next move than he could alone.

Hardin did not have much time to scrye Sydney, as most of his time was spent scrying the nearby forest, to find the quickest paths around the knights that came close enough for Henna to sense. When they stopped for a few moments to distribute the midday meal - bread and dried meat that they ate while they walked - he did pause to look, however. To his relief, the Sight showed him that Sydney was moving as well, and towards them. He was a great deal closer than he had been, but seemed still to be some ways off, for the vision came very slowly. Hardin did not have time to see more than a grim expression and the dim shapes of more people travelling in Sydney's wake. More of the brethren, he hoped, and preferably all those that were not with him.

They had just stopped for a moment to rest, a few hours later, when Branla approached with a raven on one arm. Ordinarily he'd have marvelled at the sight of the wild bird so calmly perched on the young woman's arm, as if it were nothing more than a common branch, but Branla's expression was serious. "There is a commotion off to the west," she told him. "My little friend tells me that they seem to be following near the same path we took not long ago, but he can't make out who they are from above the treetops." Beneath the weariness and the urgency, there was a hopeful look on her face as well. "Could it be Sydney and the others?"

Before even considering an answer, Hardin retraced their steps with the Sight to find the commotion that the raven had seen, covering ground quicker than any scout. It confirmed his suspicions; a large group of knights - a dozen, by his quick headcount - and they were eyeing the ground as they walked. Most of them weren't sure they were seeing rubbed-out footprints, from the way they talked among themselves, but one insisted that he could tell. This didn't particularly surprise Hardin, for among the knights there were bound to be a few skillful trackers. "Unfortunately, no."

Branla sighed slightly. "I thought as much."

Those nearby had already heard the exchange, and were watching him anxiously. They truly were all depending on him to make the right decisions - as if he was a commanding officer in one of the military operations he had left far behind - and Hardin had no choice but to rise to the occasion. He cleared his throat to get the attention of those not in his immediate vicinity, and spoke up. "There are knights behind us, and if they haven't already picked up our trail, they are on the verge of doing so. We can spend no longer here - take up what you carry and move out. There is no need to hide our tracks any longer, if they've followed us regardless, so hurry on as quickly as you can manage; we should reach Sydney soon."

From the looks on some of the brethren's faces, it was obvious that they regretted not being able to rest, but fear was enough to keep them moving onward. Again, Hardin thought firmly, if they could just reach Sydney before they were forced into a corner by the knights, then this would be over.

It was not much later that he stopped short, causing those around him to halt as well, when he by habit scouted ahead with the Sight and found another ten knights slightly to the southeast. These weren't heading straight towards them, but they were crossing back and forth - one had a leashed pair of hounds, sniffing along the ground for a scent. Again, this was something Hardin had anticipated, but not so quickly, and certainly not so soon after another scouting party had discovered their trail. The hounds had not found anything yet, Hardin noted, but their current path would take them across their trail soon enough.

They probably would not be able to tell right away which direction the brethren had been headed. "This way," he decided, gesturing to the northwest, and the brethren obeyed without questioning. It would take them longer to reach Sydney, which didn't please him at all, but the near doubling-back would buy a little more time, and might confuse the hounds for a short time as well.

By the time the knights caught up, Hardin thought as they continued onwards for a time before turning northward, they may well have reached Sydney and those with him. Another look with the Sight came much quicker than the last, which meant Sydney was much closer. Circling around to the north would definitely be the safest option, he decided - so long as he was not underestimating how far away Sydney was.

And then there was the matter of making sure they could reach him at all. Hardin had only slept a few hours the night before, as he'd been keeping the second watch, and those who had reached them just the day before had not slept enough before they'd set out again. Some were not used to the fast pace they kept, and were panting heavily after keeping it up all day. Henna looked as if she might collapse at any time, if it were not for Burchard's arm around her waist, urging her onward, and Kirrienne was not much better. There would be time enough for rest once this was through, Hardin told himself firmly, trying to put the worry out of his mind.

He was about to turn their path eastward again, when Henna's sharp cry roused him from his thinking. "Hardin!" Before she even explained the exclamation, Hardin had already turned his talent to scrying the surrounding area. Another party of knights with hounds just to the northwest, heading east. If the brethren continued on, they would cross paths; if they remained where they were or backtracked, one or both of the other parties would be sure to catch up.

Hardin swore bitterly, and again scryed those that had been approaching from the west. Just as he'd feared, they all agreed upon following the trail by now, and there was no way he could think of to make them lose it again, unless there happened to be a stream nearby he could use to backtrack. He had Branla ask whatever woodland creatures happened to be near, but she shook her head - there were no substantial bodies of water nearby.

Thinking quickly, Hardin made his decision - as those knights to the west knew that they were nearby, and those to the east and north did not, there would have to be a confrontation with at least that group at some point. "Ready your weapons and your magic - we're going to turn back and break straight through the party that's been trailing us." From there, he thought, perhaps they could make their way southward again, then eventually circle around and continue eastward as they had been, so long as they did not stumble upon any more knights. Hardin was beginning to lose hope that they would ever be so lucky, but he decided that he would determine what to do about that if and when it happened. So many unlucky circumstances had appeared already that it seemed as if any plans he might devise in advance would simply have to be discarded anyhow. At least with this plan, they would not have to fight twice their number at once, if all went well.

Still cautious after days of being chased, most of the brethren moved with admirable quiet, and Hardin kept an eye on the party of knights as they drew nearer. They were concentrating on the footprints, talking among themselves, and judging quite accurately how long ago the brethren had passed. They had no idea, Hardin thought with grim satisfaction.

The timing was perfect, and the brethren echoed his shout as they broke through the bushes into the relative clear between two thickets, facing the knights who had just emerged opposite them. Those who carried weapons alone gave raised their voices in battle cries, while those few who used magic filled the air with chants and the rushing sound of the elements bending to their commands. Arms were outstretched, directing the energies, and bolts shot from the cloudless sky to strike down a handful of the surprised knights.

Those remaining saw the danger in remaining at a distance, and sought to quickly close it before the mages were prepared for another attack, but Hardin and the other fighters were ready and waiting for the approach. Crossbow bolts were loosed, dropping a few more opponents before they met the charge with a charge of their own, backed up by the healing spells of the mages behind them. Almost before Hardin even felt the pain in his thigh from a knight's blade, he heard Kirrienne's voice calling upon the Light, healing his wound. He had no time to even nod a thank you, for the knight before him required his attention. Taken by surprise and already wounded by a crossbow bolt in the shoulder, the knight Hardin faced fell without much difficulty, and he turned to help Burchard with another.

The sounds of battle died away quickly, and for a moment, Hardin thought that perhaps he should use precisely the same tactic to confront the other scouting party on his own terms. One look around put that idea to rest - the brethren were exhausted. Bloodstained and breathless, some leaned wearily against the trunk of a tree here or there as Hardin took a quick head count to make sure they were all still there. The fighters were present, and without any significant damage, he saw with satisfaction. Those who were neither fighters nor mages were still all gathered behind those who could use offensive magic...

Hardin's blood ran cold as he realized they were one head short - one blonde head short. "Kirrienne!" He should have thought of something else, Hardin thought, furious with himself. Something that was not so dangerous...

"She's all right," Branla called, and Hardin turned back towards her to see what he had missed a moment before - Branla had been leaning over Kirrienne, who lay clutching her leg. "She will be, anyhow," she corrected herself.

Everyone was looking at him, awaiting his word of what to do next, and Hardin held up a hand, motioning for them to wait and rest for a moment while he went to see what had happened. A crossbow bolt still jutted from her thigh, Hardin found, but she was not bleeding too badly, and she smiled faintly through a grimace of pain. "I wasn't paying attention to the enemy... I was looking at our men, to see if anyone needed healing..."

"I see one person readily enough," Branla commented dryly. "I'm afraid my spells have run dry from the battle - yours as well?" Kirrienne nodded.

"Mine also," Landrik added tiredly as he approached. "I'm sorry..."

"I do have my herbs," Kirrienne murmured, wincing as she drew a bloodstained hand away from her wound to go to the sack at her waist. "They won't completely heal me, but they should stop the bleeding, given some time."

"Which we don't have." Hardin's words were not a rebuke, but a reluctant acknowledgement. "Kirri, go ahead and use your herbs now, and I'll remove this. Branla, you have your raven take another look around, if he's still nearby. Landrik, tell the others to clean their weapons and prepare to move on."

They did as he asked, and Kirrienne began to breathe a little easier as she lay back against Hardin's arm, biting her lip to avoid crying out as he carefully pulled the bolt from her leg. Blood flowed freely for a moment, seeping through her dress, but slowed quickly as the medicinal herbs began their work. "I... may not be able to walk right away," she said faintly. "You and I both know that with the knights on our trail, we can't afford to wait." The look she gave him was serious. "But that's... that's fine. So just go on and get the others to safety." She gave him a slight, shaky laugh. "The gods will protect me, perhaps... or if it is my time to go to them, I will be sure to give Padric your regards."

Hardin shook his head. "An honorable offer, but not one I intend to take you up upon today." Glancing around, he saw that the others were ready to go. "I did tell Sydney I would keep you safe until his return, after all."

"No you didn't. He ordered you to keep us safe, and you sputtered." Her laugh came a bit easier now, as the pain began to subside.

"Regardless, no one will be left behind." Hardin was firm on this. When he'd not seen her immediately during his earlier headcount, there had been a moment of terror he'd never felt during or after a battle as one of the king's men; even while counting, he'd been far more anxious than a veteran such as himself should have been. He'd had men under his command before. But these were not soldiers - they were innocent men and women being hunted under the excuse of a lie, their lives sought by those who supposedly upheld the law. They had not agreed to live their lives in such a way that it might end at any moment.

More than that, they were the brethren. _His_ brethren now, for he knew that after all of this, he could not leave them. They needed him, if for nothing more than another worthy swordsman and an experienced strategist. But just as much, he could hardly remember a life that had not been about protection; he needed them as well. It was his family scattered about the clearing now, weary and worn - brothers and sisters that he would have mourned, any one. He wished Padric were at his side - it had not been long since his death, but to Hardin it seemed almost years already - and that he knew whether or not Duncan and Kermiak were safe.

And Sydney... Sydney went so far beyond something as simple as family or duty that it frightened him. Cold and unfazable to the observer, and sometimes even downright heartless, Sydney was much more than he appeared, and all that Hardin had seen thus far proved it. Even thinking about it now, while he prayed that Sydney would hurry to arrive and assure them of safety, thinking of Sydney made him feel anxious and protective - as if it was Sydney who needed him rather than the other way around. He reached out again with his talent, drawn by both his desperation and his worry, and found Sydney moving closer still. The intensity of the mage's eyes and the purpose in his step made him appear to be stalking his prey, and Hardin breathed a sigh of relief. Soon.

For the time being, it was the brethren who needed him, and another look with the Sight told him that the first of the parties with the hounds had picked up their trail. After giving the order to move out southward, as he'd planned, he knelt and slipped his arms beneath Kirrienne. She gave a faint moan as he lifted her to his shoulder, and he turned his head to look at her with concern as he straightened. "I'm sorry..." she murmured.

"Hmm?" Hardin was puzzled, but didn't have time to pause as he followed after the others, trying not to jostle her too much. "What do you have to feel sorry for?"

"For... for slowing you down, being a burden like this," she whispered faintly. Looking into his eyes through the tears in her own, she gave him a smile. "If you give me my crossbow, I can fire it over your shoulder if our pursuers catch up..."

Hardin felt a wave of regret wash over him; she truly would have been exactly the type of woman he could have happily spent the rest of his life with, if he had not met Sydney. "No, Kirri... I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't be... these things do happen, after all, and you protected me the best you could..."

"Not for the wound," Hardin told her. "Though I do wish I could have avoided it."

She looked at him curiously. "...I don't understand..."

He turned his attention back to the land ahead of him, watching for uneven ground that might cause him to stumble and drop her if he was not careful. "Someday you will." _Someday, but not now, when you're wounded and in pain... If nothing else, for now you can rest on my shoulder, happy that I am carrying you to safety. ...Or so I hope and pray._

Even with the addition of Kirrienne's weight upon his shoulder, Hardin caught up to the rest of the brethren in no time at all. Rather than being relieved, he found this somewhat discouraging, and he anxiously scryed the newest party of knights who had found their trail. They were gaining ground easily, but at least Branla's raven reported no one ahead of them - unless someone lay quietly in an ambush. It was not very likely, considering that even Hardin himself did not know which way he might be directing them from one moment to the next, but he was unwilling to take chances, and asked Henna to go to the front of their party, concentrating her talent ahead of them to give them any warning. She was not meant to be in the front lines, not at all, but seeing as the more obvious danger was approaching from the rear, it seemed that the front lines might be the safest place to be anyhow.

They pressed onward as quickly as they could, finding no danger ahead, while Hardin paid close attention to the space left between him and the knights, which was dwindling constantly. Stretching his Sight behind him, he heard the knights talking and laughing amongst themselves, cursing the "depraved heretics" they chased, and he saw the light gleam off the sharp, white teeth of the hounds as they snarled and strained against their leashes, eager to fall upon those they hunted.

About to urge the brethren to pick up their pace, Hardin cut the thought off before it could be voiced. It was obvious they could go no faster, not as weary as they were, and instead he instructed them to halt, to sit down and rest. Perhaps, he thought, even a few minutes of rest would give them the strength they needed to fight or flee when they were in more imminent danger. Besides, a moment's scrying found Sydney crossing the clearing where they had confronted the last group of knights; he glanced over the fallen knights, armor blackened or bloodied, and continued onward. There was a moment's alarm when Hardin realized that the knights were now between his party and Sydney, but Sydney was close on the heels of the knights and their hounds, so it might be that he would overtake them before Hardin and his party were forced to take action. Besides, his face was calm and determined, and Hardin found that comforting.

Letting the Sight slip away from him, Hardin paused to look around at the state those with him were in. A short rest had made barely a dent in their exhaustion, he found with dismay, so it very well might be that Sydney's proximity to the knights would be what saved them in the end. It was likely their only hope of survival.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Hardin closed his eyes to rest them for just a moment, leaning his head back against the trunk of the tree he sat beneath. He was so tense that he had to fight not to open his eyes in alarm as the breeze gusted through the underbrush in a manner that brought to mind the sound of the knights and the hounds passing through the same not far behind him. He imagined he could still hear it in the wind, their hurry and their conversation, and the sounds of the dogs barking...

He froze, even holding his breath to make certain he had not imagined it. Next to him, Kirrienne heard the pause of his breathing and turned her head to regard him with worry. "Hardin?" she asked softly.

"On your feet," he ordered the brethren, his voice harsh with urgency as he rose, one hand on his sword. After the initial rustling of fabric and flora that accompanied their obedience, he listened in the near-silence again, and heard the same - he could hear the hounds' braying with his own ears now, without the aid of the Dark.

"They're close," he muttered to those around him, letting the Dark give him a glimpse of Sydney as he spoke. The vision was instantaneous and clear. "Sydney is close as well. Our only chance is to evade the knights until Sydney can join with us - or until he can overtake them on his own. Make ready to flee... and to take as many of them down as we can should we fail to do so."

The faces of the brethren were tight, worried; even the more experienced fighters among them looked grim as they loosed their weapons in their sheaths. Even the mention of Sydney had granted only a glimmer of hope, and they looked to their unexpected captain for their final orders. Even Kirrienne, still unable to stand without the help of a tree to lean upon, held her head up high and silently waited.

Hardin could not stand to see his companions so anxious, and he sought something more to say, something more comforting. "...This should be the last, for the time being," he said finally, "for good or ill. We shall live or die - and if we live, we can rest." To his surprise, his fond smile was not entirely forced as he turned his eyes to each of their faces in turn. "Pray to your gods for a miracle - and live."

There were a few nods and murmurs of agreement from those around him, but that slight noise was not enough to drown out the unmistakable sound of barking in the distance. Turning to Kirrienne, Hardin lifted her to his shoulder again with one arm, drawing his sword with the other. "Go now," he told them all quietly, and followed as they did so.

Their pace was still not quick, but it at least gave Sydney a bit longer, Hardin thought. Regardless, with each passing moment, the barking of the hounds tracking them grew louder, and it was not long until there was a triumphant shout. They'd been spotted - the knights were within visual range now. Magic was useless, however, as the trees were too thick to give them a clear shot; the same ruled out bows. It would be hand to hand combat, doubtless - and though the brethren outnumbered the knights slightly, only half could fight with weapons at all.

Given his options, Hardin made the only choice he had. "Run!" he shouted, and the brethren obeyed as well as they could, given their weariness. Some were not fast even on a good day - trying to pick their way through the thick forest did not help - and Hardin kept his pace slow as well, making certain that all of them stayed ahead of him, so that he could keep an eye on them. If one should fall...

He was in danger of falling as well, for weaving in and out of the trees at a jog would have been difficult enough without allowing for Kirrienne's weight over one shoulder and watching for any branches that might strike her, slashing them from his path with the sword he carried. "I don't suppose you can walk," he asked, knowing that it was probably futile to ask.

"Walk, perhaps, but not run. I'm sorry-"

"It's all right." It had to be all right. Sydney had been so close the last time he scryed that he would certainly catch up any moment now. He moved much more quickly than Hardin did, after all, and then he would summon, or... do _something_ that would save them. So where was he, Hardin wondered desperately - he should have caught up already, by his estimation. A chill went up his spine as something occurred to him. Surely the knights couldn't have...

He shook his head firmly. He had no time to scrye, with his attention on keeping himself and the others moving, but Sydney would come - with every footstep he forced himself to believe it. He had to have faith, in Sydney and the gods he served. Not knowing what else to do, Hardin offered them prayers born of desperation. _Marduk, god of the Air, make our feet swift as the wind; Tamulis, lord of the Fire, light a flame within us and give us energy; Palolo, Earth Mother, strengthen us to stand firm as a stone wall against our foes; Talia, goddess of Water, may misfortune cover our enemies as a great wave crashing down upon the rocks; Kadesh, guardian of love and Light..._ Hardin's prayers faltered, and in his heart, there was only one request to be made. _Please, bring him to us - to me - quickly and safely!_

No answer seemed to be forthcoming, for all he heard was the sound of his own heavy breathing echoing in his own ears, brush crackling beneath his feet, and the sounds of the dogs coming ever closer. Even if they managed to keep up their present pace, it would not be long before he and Kirrienne were overtaken, and then the others would fall one by one as the knights caught up to them also.

"Run, damn it!" he shouted to the brethren again, his desperation causing him to sound almost furious. It was their only chance. If nothing else, Hardin thought, perhaps he could slow the knights down a bit, give them a bit more time... of course, it would mean sacrificing Kirrienne as well as himself, and so it would have to be a last resort.

It seemed more likely with each passing moment, however, for now he could hear not just the shouts and barking from behind him, but the movement of the knights through the underbrush as well. He dared not waste a second to look back, but he thought he could hear the creak of the knights' armor, the panting of the dogs. He had no choice; he had to make his stand now, or they would all be lost.

He lowered Kirrienne to the ground; he could not take the time to steady her as she almost stumbled, her weakened leg still uncertain. "Go," he breathed. "As fast as you can manage." Without waiting for any protests or goodbyes, Hardin turned back, raising his sword to meet three knights and the two hounds. Now loosed from their leashes, they had been almost on his heels, and they rushed in for the kill.

He was just in time to see what he'd thought were two fallen logs suddenly tilt upwards, as if drawn by a puppeteer's strings, just behind the three who had pulled ahead of the others. The ground shuddered from the impact as a shorter, thicker trunk rose and fell with a tremendous thud, landing squarely atop the splintered ends of the two that now stood upright.

The hounds' barking turned to yelps as they abandoned the hunt and fled. The knights didn't seem to have any idea what was happening, and the three facing him turned away to see what the great crash had been. Hardin ordinarily would have taken advantage of the moment to strike down at least one of them before they recovered, but he too was shocked to the point of inaction. Staring up in amazement, he watched two thick stumps rise into the air as well, hovering on either side of the inexplicably animated logs and giving them an appearance not unlike a child's crude marionette - arms, legs, and gnarled torso. The creature turned, swiftly for something so massive, and one limb swung downwards, sweeping across the forest floor where the knights stood and knocking them off their feet. The other lifted and then smashed down on top of one of the knights, as if it were a giant fist, then repeated the motion upon another before anyone had a chance to react.

Knowing that they were badly outmatched no matter what had caused this, the knights tried to scramble to their feet and run, but their escape was cut off by one mighty arm. The other swung in a powerful swipe that sent one knight flying into the side of a nearby tree, and he slid to the ground limply, his head bent at an impossible angle.

Still unable to comprehend what was happening, Hardin simply backed away and watched with a mixture of awe and horror as the wooden creature methodically crushed one knight after another without any apparent effort whatsoever. As a knotted limb lurched past his field of vision, crashing down once more, something behind it caught Hardin's eye, and he looked closer, to a dark figure standing in the midst of the trees beyond.

He sagged back against the closest tree in exhausted relief as he caught sight of a wisp of blond hair as it was dragged from the shadows of the cloak by an errant breeze, the glitter of dark, colorless eyes beneath the hood, and then the long, angled gleam of metal where a normal man's hands would have been as the arms rose to throw it back, revealing a small, satisfied smile. "...Thank you," Hardin whispered gratefully.

* * *

A few minutes later found Hardin almost numb after the vanquishing of his fear, and he watched in silence as Sydney sent out those who had followed him to bring back those who had been a part of Hardin's party. Duncan was among those who had come with Sydney, much to Hardin's relief, but he hadn't had time to make certain that everyone was accounted for before they split up again. He'd thought for a moment to warn Sydney of all the knights searching the area, but abandoned the thought almost immediately; Sydney undoubtedly knew the danger at least as well as he did. For the time being, they must be safe.

The wooden golem still loomed nearby, making Hardin vaguely uneasy, but with little more than a glance and a gesture from Sydney, the trunks and limbs slowly disassembled themselves and dropped to the forest floor. His back to Hardin, Sydney nodded slightly as the enchantment dispersed and the fallen trees became nothing more than fallen trees once again, and then the enchanter turned around.

Hardin had seen Sydney, of course, since they'd parted ways, but now that they were face to face and alone, it was a bit different. To have those dark eyes fixed on him again gave Hardin a feeling of relief over many things, and after everything that had happened in the past few days, it was difficult to stifle the urge to cross the short distance between them, to offer a warm, grateful greeting. Instead, feeling oddly awkward, he said nothing as he straightened to face the mage, waiting for him to speak first.

"I'm glad to see that you and the others are well."

Not a flicker of emotion crossed Sydney's face, and he met Hardin's eyes with no warmth, no guilt, and no sign whatsoever that he had any idea how worried Hardin had been. This was not at all the meeting Hardin had expected, and he remained silent, dismayed at Sydney's lack of reaction to what had happened.

"I must admit, you performed far beyond what I expected of you," Sydney continued. "To not only protect those entrusted to you, but to empower them - to gather whomever you could find and mold their motley talents into a fighting company..." A faint, cold smile touched the mage's lips. "I knew you would not disappoint me."

"Of course not," Hardin said sharply, memories of their last conversation returning easily when confronted with the same coldness Sydney had shown before. "And that, of course, was why you simply gave me what seemed like a near impossible order - we came _damned_ near to dying a few times, mind you - and then left without any explanation or assurance. Because you knew I would simply do as I was told, regardless of how I felt about the matter, since you deigned to bestow a kiss upon me, to seal my obedience. As if I were some lovestruck youth to be prodded along with promises of more!" he exclaimed bitterly, his patience snapping easily after days of fleeing, hiding, and fighting on little sleep.

Sydney offered no apology or explanation, nor even a look of remorse, in the face of Hardin's anger. Crossing his arms, he let one gleaming finger tap against the metal of his forearm as he stood waiting, the very personification of impatience.

It did nothing to improve Hardin's mood. "Do you know why I protected them, Sydney? Do you? It was not for you - it was for Kirri and Branla. If I had not known that they would likely die without my protection, I'd have left to flee the king's men and the Blades alone. I was doing a fine job of it until I met you, after all, and now that I've recovered, certainly I could do it again with ease. I wouldn't have given a damn if I had disappointed you - I did what you asked of me because they needed me, not because of your orders."

Sydney listened in cool silence until Hardin had vented his rage. "If that is how you feel," he said at last, "you are free to leave us anytime you like. You've done what I asked of you, after all."

Hardin stared at him, stunned. "By the gods," he managed to sputter through his anger and disbelief, "you're the most black-hearted... after all that I - that we..."

"I am black-hearted because I offer you your freedom?"

The mage was still perfectly calm and composed, and Hardin had to take a few deep breaths before he could respond, lest he say or do something that he would regret. Although, he admitted to himself, the way things were going, it didn't seem that there was anything he could say or do that he didn't have a very good chance of regretting. The best he could do, it seemed, would be simple honesty. "...This hurts, Sydney."

"And why is that?"

"You know I don't want to leave you," he replied evenly. "You said yourself not long ago that you thought you might have need of me, and I believe you were right. And besides-"

"We have other swordsmen," Sydney interrupted. It was odd, but Hardin thought he saw a touch of anxiety in his eyes. "Though you are skilled, you are not indispensible. We can find others to take up with us, I'm sure."

"I didn't mean Müllenkamp," Hardin told him firmly, meeting his eyes. Yes, he definitely looked troubled, and that made him all the more certain of what he was about to say. "I meant you."

Sydney sniffed. "Hardin, you're talking nonsense."

"Am I? I've seen the parts of you that you allow no one else to see. I've forgiven your indiscretions, I've borne witness to your unhappiness, I've held you during your weakness..." Thinking about it, Hardin found that much to his annoyance, he could not even remain entirely angry at Sydney - he knew perhaps better than anyone how complicated the mage was, how he was so many things all at once, and it fascinated him as much as it frustrated him. "...This isn't you."

Honesty, he had decided, and honesty it would be, as much as the words he wanted so badly to say frightened him. "You told me that every man has needs," he said hesitantly, uncertain of how he could say it. "As much as you drive me mad, I know it's... it's only because you hide yourself away, you hide your needs, you pretend you feel nothing at all... Gods, if only you would just stop forcing me to _guess_ at what you want from me, because... because Sydney, I want to... to continue to be the one to meet the needs you hide away, just as you have met mine. It's foolish of me, I know... and at the moment I despise myself for it," he growled as a bitter aside, "but-"

"Hardin," Sydney protested, but Hardin shook his head firmly and continued on the path he had chosen.

"Sydney." Looking into the mage's vaguely troubled eyes, Hardin's anger softened. He prayed that Sydney would remain silent - he had not said anything like this to anyone for quite some time, and it had been longer still since he'd actually believed he could mean it. Even through the anger, he believed. "...I-"

His prayers went unanswered. "John, please..." Sydney murmured.

"No." His tenacity surprised even himself, but he had not believed in anything so strongly for many years, not even the gods whose presence he had felt so surely. "Sydney, I-"

Sydney's eyes suddenly flashed with anger, so tangible it stopped Hardin short. "Don't say it, Hardin." Crossing his arms, Sydney refused to look Hardin in the eyes, choosing instead to stare bitterly off into the distance. "Don't ever say it."

"And why shouldn't I?" Hardin insisted. "This is no whim - I honestly mean it."

His words were halted by a sudden sharp look from Sydney. The mage's face was stormy, filled with a rage Hardin hadn't seen since that last fateful morning in Leá Monde, and Hardin took half a step back before he caught himself.

Sydney appeared to catch himself as well, and after a moment, his face regained the distant serenity that he so often assumed. "I do not love you, Hardin," he said, letting each word settle in the quiet peace of the forest. "I... do not... love you."

Each word was like a punch to Hardin's stomach, and he stood there, dazed, as he stared at Sydney in disbelief. He _couldn't_ believe that - all these months that Sydney had seemingly been pursuing him, the way he'd been pushed into the self-discovery that he wasn't ready for, and all the nights he'd lain awake trying to come to terms with these feelings rather than put them out of mind...

Sydney nodded simply. "So you understand."

His voice was so calm, so cold, while stating these words that shattered his soul, that Hardin was furious. "You _bastard_," he growled. "You couldn't just leave me alone - you had to stir all this up, push me to the very edge of my sanity, and all over you... and _now_ you tell me? Why did you do this? Why?"

"Because you could meet those needs you so like to remind me of. Because your attentions please me." A slow, cruel smile spread across Sydney's lips. "And would it have made any difference if you'd known?"

Hardin's mouth opened, but he closed it again immediately as he realized he had nothing to say. For a moment, he almost lifted a hand to strike Sydney, but he found that despite what had just been said, his own feelings had not changed at all; Sydney was right. Suddenly he felt terribly ill.

Sydney stalked past him deeper into the woods, leaving him alone. Just in time, Hardin thought, because he was so furious and confused that he had to sit down quickly, before his knees gave out beneath him. Staring blankly down at the ground, he found their exchange repeating itself endlessly in his head, and he desperately sought for some other meaning - any other meaning. None could be found.

So Sydney did not love him. All the times he'd been so close to surrendering to the feelings Sydney stirred up, he'd only been feeding a primal, instinctive desire, not the emotional closeness he'd thought Sydney needed. And Sydney had let him go so far, taking what he offered readily, without even telling him.

Placing his head in his hands, Hardin forced himself to breathe evenly; making himself sick would solve nothing.

* * *

It was some time later when, much calmer, Hardin finally rose to his feet again, setting off to find the place where the Sight had taken him. If knights still remained nearby, he didn't care much; exhausted physically and emotionally, he would not have been able to defend himself no matter how careful he was. His shuffling steps were heavy upon the ground, leaving clear footprints and trampled ground to mark his passing, and he could not care less, for his attention was on something further away - something that might never come within his reach, no matter how far he walked.

The colorless eyes were as blank as the rest of his face, standing out sharply against his fair skin, which in turn stood out sharply against the bark of the great oak tree he was perched in. The gods only knew how he'd gotten up there, Hardin thought - perhaps those claws were useful for climbing? But there he was, and even if he was indeed untouchable, Hardin intended to get as close as he could manage anyhow.

He had realized something only a few minutes after Sydney had departed. Sydney had written off all the closeness they'd shared as mere lust on his part, nothing of real value - but then, why had Sydney apologized after he'd driven him to run away, into the Undercity where he'd nearly met his end? Why had Sydney stopped him, when his inhibitions had completely fallen away in his grief, and he'd sought to satisfy his helpless desire? Why hadn't Sydney simply reached out and touched him a few nights ago, when he must have known that a single caress would set his body afire? For that matter, why hadn't Sydney simply said nothing at all, and continued to take what Hardin would offered him, if it pleased him so much?

And then there were the numerous smaller kindnesses - the way Sydney had carefully instructed him in the ways of the Dark and the gods, and the way he'd taken it upon himself to keep the brethren from troubling him in the days after Padric's death. There were hundreds of little things that Sydney had done for him that could not be attributed to attempts at seduction, and they all added up to paint a picture of a man who honestly did care. The empty look in Sydney's eyes now, when he thought no one was watching, simply confirmed what Hardin had already realized.

He cut off the scrying as he drew nearer, finding Sydney's refuge, and simply looked upwards to where the mage sat, far above his head. "You're a lying bastard, Sydney," he called softly.

Sydney glanced down through the leaves, a hint of surprise lighting his eyes, and Hardin knew he'd been lost in thought; Sydney would never have been startled by his approach ordinarily, even if he'd taken pains to move silently. After a moment, though, a slight smile crossed his lips. "Sometimes, yes."

"...You need me."

The smile faded as quickly as it had appeared. Sydney looked down at him, eyes glittering with disdain, but he did not give any denial.

"Good, so you've decided not to lie again." Hardin counted it as a small victory. "...Sydney, come down."

Sydney obliged, causing Hardin to do a double-take as the mage simply vanished, then reappeared on the forest floor a few paces away. Seeing the look on Hardin's face, he gave a faint, wry smile. "I frighten you."

"Yes, you do." That was not much of an admission. "You frighten me constantly. I should really hate you, for all you put me through - and then, just when I think it's over, you go and say _that_."

Sydney's eyes narrowed. "Hardin, I-"

"Don't worry," Hardin muttered. "I'm too much of a damned fool to hate you, you realize. I even suppose you have your reasons for acting this way. But do you know something? I don't care."

Sydney just looked at him for a long time before responding. "Then you _are_ a fool."

"Sydney..." Hardin shook his head in exasperation. "Why are you trying so hard to drive me away?"

The mage gave no response, instead turning away and idly fidgeting with the limbs of a nearby yew. Hardin just barely stopped himself from taking the mage's thin shoulders beneath his palms and shaking them in frustration. "Sydney, you..."

He bit back the angry words as well, knowing he didn't really mean them at all. "Sydney..." he murmured helplessly, his eyes traversing the familiar planes of the blonde's profile, the fine arc of the hair as a breeze caught it. Sydney had always been able to calm him, just by being so serene himself. "Sydney..."

It took him a moment, but finally he realized what he wanted to say - what he _could_ say. "Sydney... I will not say it, if it truly means so much to you. But..." A sudden realization struck him. "It doesn't matter, really, does it? You can read my heart..." Sydney knew what he thought, what he felt; why then did it trouble him so much that he should put it into words? Why wouldn't he admit that there was something between them? He couldn't be afraid of being disappointed...

Sydney still gave no response. Fine, then, Hardin thought. If he didn't want it put into words... then he would show him another way.

Half-expecting to be shoved away roughly, or at least reprimanded, Hardin was somewhat surprised when Sydney did nothing to discourage him from slipping his hands beneath the metal arms, wrapping his own tightly around the mage's chest and waist. Satisfied that he would at least allow this gesture, Hardin relaxed a little, resting his chin upon the top of Sydney's head as the two of them stood together in silence. "...I missed you these past days," he whispered, after a time. "Even as angry as I was... I missed you a great deal."

Sydney remained silent, and Hardin sighed, absently looking down at Sydney's metal hands, moving so gently over the brush that not a single branch was marred by the blades. "...I cannot understand why it upsets you so," he admitted. "I apologize... I did not mean for this to happen. I never wanted it to happen - gods, but I wanted it _not_ to happen... I still don't know how it did happen..."

"Fate."

The single word, softly spoken, both troubled and reassured him with its finality. "Is that what you believe, then?"

Sydney's fist abruptly crashed down into the foliage, shattering twigs and sending green needles flying, as he broke free of Hardin's embrace. "Damn it all!"

Startled by the outburst, Hardin took a step back before he caught himself. "Forgive me, I..." His apology ended there, for he had no idea what exactly he was apologizing for.

Sydney had turned his back entirely, and it was impossible for Hardin to read his expression or even his posture, with the dark cloak rustling out behind him in a gust of wind, obscuring all but his head. He was becoming accustomed to minor invasions of privacy, though, he admitted as he looked a little closer with the Sight - and saw none of the fury he'd expected in Sydney's face. Instead, Sydney's eyes were turned upward towards the sky with a pained, anxious look, as if he were pleading.

Uncertain of what he could say or do that would not upset Sydney further, he waited a short time before he spoke. "I don't want to believe that it is inescapable - or as we spoke of not so long ago, that means we have no say in our lives. But perhaps in some cases, fate is not a sentence to either fight against or resign yourself to, but a promise to be embraced."

His back still turned, Sydney shook his head. "You know not of what you speak, Hardin."

"Then tell me."

Sydney was silent for a long time, but Hardin waited. "No." Sydney's answer was soft, but firm in its finality. "It does not matter."

"Obviously it matters to you." Hardin dared to take a step closer, and Sydney did not move in the slightest. It seemed to Hardin that he was terribly close to something frightening, but he could not make out exactly what it was. "...Will you continue to shut me out forever?"

One more step, and when Sydney turned to face him, Hardin wasted not a moment in taking the mage into his arms again. Sydney pulled back at first, his claws pricking Hardin's chest through his shirt as he instinctively pushed away, but it wasn't long before he stopped resisting. Hardin felt the shift in Sydney's weight as he sighed in resignation, letting his head rest against the taller man's shoulder. And then, after a long, uncertain moment, he felt Sydney's arms around his waist as well. This was encouraging, and gave Hardin enough courage to reach up to touch Sydney's face, feeling along the smooth line of his cheek and down to his chin, slipping a finger beneath to gently turn his face upwards.

As he leaned forward, however, Sydney shook his head again and slipped one hand up to part them gently, resting one sharp finger upon Hardin's lips. "Hardin... there are things to be done, matters to be attended to. I should see to my followers," he murmured, his tone carefully soft and neutral. "They've gathered in a place of my choosing, and are setting up camp - many of them are weary beyond measure."

"...Of course, you're right." Reluctantly, Hardin released him. "But Sydney-"

"No." Sydney remained firm as he stepped away, turning to go. "We will speak later, Hardin, but not of that."

Hardin wasn't even entirely sure what he'd intended to ask - there were so many questions now that he felt dizzy trying to put them into coherent form. Even so, he nodded his grudging acceptance; nothing had been settled, but at least that meant that nothing had been discarded completely.

Sydney looked back at him with a critical eye. "Come and sleep, Hardin - you're utterly exhausted."

That did offer a good explanation for why he was having so much trouble thinking clearly, come to think of it, and Hardin absently rubbed his hand across his jaw, rough from the last few days without shaving. "Of course, you're right." Sydney seemed to be acting normally again, whatever the trouble was, but perhaps it was only Hardin's fatigue that allowed him to speak so frankly without fear of setting him off again. "I... confess that I have not slept so well since we last saw each other."

The quiet admission made Sydney pause - obviously he'd picked up on the underlying meaning in Hardin's statement - then he continued on his way as he replied, softer still. "Nor have I."

It was enough to let Hardin relax for what seemed like the first time in many days. It was very nearly enough to make him smile.


	16. She Breaks the Golden Band

When Hardin woke, it was dark - probably the middle of the night, he guessed, though the thickness of the trees he'd bedded beneath made it difficult to tell for certain. Even with the concealment of hour and shade, he knew instantly that he was not alone in the place he'd found, at the foot of an embankment a short distance from where the other brethren had settled down.

It had been Sydney's suggestion, he recalled, that they might take some time setting up camp, and that after all Hardin had done for them, the least they could do was spare him that task and allow him to rest without interruption. Despite the conclusion - or lack thereof - they'd come to in their talk earlier, Hardin had wondered if perhaps Sydney had more personal motives for suggesting he sleep apart from the others, but he had been much too exhausted to remain awake and find out.

But now his heart felt drawn somehow, prompting him to turn his head, to see that the mage stood near his feet. He was watching Hardin, that much was obvious in spite of the distance he assumed almost constantly. Strange, Hardin thought, that this time it should be himself waking to find Sydney watching him as he slept.

Sydney smiled slightly, probably hearing the thought, and for an instant he looked very young, very innocent. "You've not fully rested."

"I've rested enough." Hardin's eyes were adjusting better to the darkness as he sat up, rubbing a hand across them to clear away the last remnants of sleep so that he might see the mage more clearly. "And you? Have you slept?"

"I've slept enough." Hardin smiled at his own words echoed back to him. "Much has taken place in the past few days, and if you've rested 'enough', then I believe I should fill you in." Hardin nodded mutely, pushing back the blankets to settle himself comfortably as he listened to what Sydney had to tell him - though what Sydney told him was not the least bit comfortable.

"We've lost fifteen, as well as some of the villagers we tried to protect."

The statement struck straight into Hardin's heart, snapping him wide awake, and he struggled to hold on to something of hope. "...Lost...?"

"They were slaughtered before I could reach them." Sydney's words were blunt, and his voice remained perfectly level as he began to list the fallen. "Jonas. Fanella. Dorian. Miklaus..."

With each name, the hope Hardin had tried to keep hold of was drained away, and a few made him shudder; Garret had been perhaps sixteen years old, at most, and Marcellia had been carrying a child. Sydney paused, and gave him a vague, ironic smile. "I thought it would be best to tell you _after_ you'd slept. Do not mourn, Hardin - not for their sake. They've gone to the arms of the gods, who welcome their martyrs as the most blessed."

Hardin lowered his head to rest in his hands, sighing heavily. "...This can't go on, Sydney. The brethren shouldn't be made to endure such a life - they've done nothing wrong."

"And yet the knights still prowl the forest," Sydney reminded him. "Even if we had not been framed, in their sight already our lives are forfeit, as we've refused to acknowledge the false hope they offer."

"Demand is more the word," Hardin growled, dropping his hands in disgust. "Hope! What they do is eliminate hope - why would anyone put their hope in such men as would slaughter the innocent?"

"Why? Because they have never been shown that there is an alternative," Sydney replied. "The king has given the church of St. Iocus freedom to do as they wish within his borders, never having seen an alternative himself. And like their ruler, the majority of the people believe what they are told, never finding reason - or strength, when there is reason - to question." His eyes fixed on Hardin's, glittering faintly in the darkness. "You know this, Hardin - you trusted those blindly loyal to the king and to the church, up until the very instant they betrayed that trust."

"I was a fool," Hardin agreed grimly. "And it was not only myself that wound up paying for that folly, but those who most trusted me - my companions, my brother! And how many others have fallen victim to their lies, Sydney? Nearly a score in just the past few days, and the same several times over in a single incident not long before!"

"Calm yourself, Hardin-"

"Calm myself?" Hardin exclaimed in disbelief, frustrated by his inability to do anything more than fume. "And why should I do that? This can't be allowed to happen any longer! When such things happen, what kind of a man would remain calm?"

"A prudent one," Sydney told him. "A man who realizes that one day all will be put aright."

Hardin paused and looked up to regard Sydney, helplessly searching for some glimmer of hope. "Will it, Sydney?"

Sydney lowered his head. "It may. It has been made known to me that this age is drawing to a close. The violence wrought by the church of St. Iocus could be likened to the birthing pains of a new mother - more suffering must take place before relief comes. If this pain is overcome, it will be forgotten in the joy brought about by the dawning age; but if the pain becomes victorious, it will be as a murderer, and all will remember and curse it." The mage lifted his eyes again to meet Hardin's steadily. "I do not intend to allow that."

Hardin nodded; even had he not believed in Sydney's power after all he'd seen, the determination in the mage's voice showed that he meant what he said, and with all his heart. "How soon, then?"

"I know not the hour." Sydney's voice was quiet, but firm. "That is something the gods have not revealed."

"You misunderstand," Hardin put forth. "Why should we wait for the enemy to be overcome?" Something was coming clear in his thoughts, the same idea that had begun forming while he had been directing the brethren with him in battle tactics and evasion, and he rose to pace as he went over it out loud. "Why not hasten the process? Only a handful of men and women, few of whom had ever handled a weapon before, managed to beat back a greater number of fully armed and trained Crimson Blades, Sydney - think what could be done against them if we were more organized!"

"Is that so?" Sydney asked coldly. "Would you have me lead my flock - the innocents who have come to me for refuge - into battle? Would you have them form an army to rebel against the puppet king and the cardinal, when their armies number in the thousands, and ours only a few dozen?"

"Not an army, and not into battle. But with all we are capable of, why do we still die? If those seeking us will not cease, I say we should not sit back and be hunted like rabbits. They've spread their lies about us, and I say we ought to give them less lies to work with. If Müllenkamp is already known as a pack of troublemakers," Hardin declared, turning to face Sydney seriously, "then let us use the powers given us through the Dark to make such trouble as they've never seen the likes of before."

"What would you do?" Sydney shook his head in mocking exasperation. "Burn the cathedrals and churches to the ground? Magically appear in the midst of the king's court and behead him?"

"Give me some credit, Sydney," Hardin muttered. "I am not so foolish as to think that it would be as simple as that. In the PeaceGuard, we were not ordinary foot soldiers; we were trained in more than simply swinging a sword. We learned subversion, discretion... and the patience to wait until the time was right, and acceptable tactics had been decided upon."

His tirade stopped short when he noticed that the exasperation in Sydney's face was seeping away, being replaced by curiosity. "So then, Hardin," the mage said, his gaze intent upon the taller man's face, "what would you do?"

Hardin hesitated. "Precisely? I am not quite sure," he admitted. "But after I had watched, waited, learned all I could about our enemies... then I would formulate our plan. Perhaps something could be stirred up among the people of Valendia to keep them occupied - civil unrest, if not outright rebellion. The people deserve to know what their supposedly holy cardinal has done, what their monarch has allowed to happen. With a public outcry against them, they would be all the more vulnerable to small, focused strikes to undermine their foundation. That is when the Dark could be used to our best advantage."

"Hmm." Sydney seemed intrigued by the idea, tapping a metal claw upon his folded arms thoughtfully.

Something about the expression on his face made it suddenly clear to Hardin. "You've thought about doing precisely this before, haven't you?"

"Who would not, when he is plagued time and time again by the same troubles?" Sydney raised his hands in a small, graceful shrug. "It was impossible before - never have we had any among our number who were experienced in such matters."

Hardin could scarcely believe how everything was falling into place. It was more than he could have hoped for to think that he could have a place and a purpose with Sydney, that he could still be useful in the pursuit of justice, that he might have a chance to strike back at those who had used him. "But now-"

"However, you speak of 'us'," Sydney interrupted. "You are not one of us. You have much experience in military operations and a particularly useful talent, yes, but you know little of the Dark - how it works, what possibilities it holds, its weak points."

"Then teach me," Hardin urged Sydney. "Teach me everything. Sorcery, summoning... whatever there is to be learned of the Dark."

Sydney eyed him, almost smirking. "There are a few things I believe we should discuss before I oblige you in this... if you still wish to go on once the discussion is through."

"Then let us begin." Hardin did not intend to change his mind.

"Yes... let us."

Despite Sydney's words, it was some time before he spoke again, but instead he began to pace slightly himself, his focus remaining on Hardin. Hardin found the critical look in his eyes to be distracting - even a little disturbing - as he circled, almost appearing to prowl. "Your voice may ask this of me," he said finally, "but your heart is still filled with fear."

"I won't deny that," Hardin admitted.

"Good."

Hardin was snapped to attention by the sharp word as the half-smirk vanished abruptly from Sydney's face, replaced by an icy intensity. "The Dark is a very dangerous thing, particularly when one is not afraid of it. The more a man desires the Dark, the more thoroughly it fills him, until it has eaten away all that he is, leaving him no more than a shell through which the Dark can work destruction. Even the gods are not immune, as you'll recall from what I taught you of our order's history. And you, John -" Sydney met his eyes with a dangerous look, lowering his voice. "If you do not respect the Dark - if you forget that fear and long to be filled with its power - you could become a demon. And I would destroy you."

Hardin froze where he stood, his blood running cold; in his fervor, he'd forgotten the true nature of the Dark. Seeing the look upon his face, Sydney nodded gravely. "Your desire to bring our oppressors to justice is strong, but it must never surpass your fear - and yet you must never be overcome by fear, lest the Dark turn on you in your weakness. It is a constant struggle for balance. If I am to teach you what you wish to know, you must always remember this. Are you willing to take such a risk?"

Hardin considered, and then nodded. "...Yes, I am," he agreed finally.

"Why?"

The question surprised him, and he thought for a moment, searching for the right words. "Do you remember when you asked me about my dream - if I would rather suffocate slowly in a prison cell or burn in the flames? I would burn, Sydney," he told the mage earnestly. "I would much rather burn. I know that I can't set the world aright on my own, for I am only one man, and not a powerful one. But perhaps... perhaps if only I can help you to do what must be done..."

"Or you could leave, and live a peaceful life."

"Could I?" Hardin asked, shaking his head already. "Where would I go? What would I do? I am a wanted man."

Sydney's lips almost curled in a smile of amusement. "Few that have seen your recent deeds have lived to take a description to their superiors," he pointed out. "As for your former crimes, those were not so great that they would keep searching, or ever suspect you if you were to so much as take a different name."

"And what purpose would it serve to do so?" Hardin replied. "I might become a mercenary, or a bodyguard, but why would I? With my brother gone, I have no need for money to buy any but the most necessary things - food, clothing. You have provided me with both, and I would earn my hire from you, who has need of a _loyal_ swordsman, rather than those whose doings I would know and care little about."

Sydney frowned. "Hardin... your heart cries for something more than justice or vengeance. This choice you would make is an act of passion in more than one way. Which passion is it that moves you to speak thus?"

Caught up as he was in the moment, Hardin didn't realize what he meant right away. "I can't be sure," he admitted. Sydney was already nearly convinced, Hardin was certain of it, or he would not have even asked these past few questions. He did not intend to jeopardize his chances by stretching the truth. "Regardless, it is my choice, is it not?"

"It is," Sydney agreed. "But if it was someone other than myself who stood before you now, if it was anyone else living... would you still take this burden of the Dark upon yourself?"

Hardin nodded without hesitation. "Yes, I would. I have faith in your power, in addition to my faith in your character."

"And if I never should return these sentiments of yours?"

Hardin faltered for a moment; it was a frustrating thing to admit to, but he nodded. "I've nothing to return to now - even if my family still lived, I have come too far from the life I knew to ever go back. My bridges are all burned, and I have nothing," he said honestly. "There is nothing in this world for me aside from what you have given. Even had nothing more passed between us than the meals and campfires we've shared, that fact would still hold true."

Sydney paused, looking deeply into his eyes. "You speak truly," he murmured. "Kneel, then." He raised an eyebrow at Hardin's curious look. "Surely you do not think that power in the Dark will be granted without an oath, do you, Hardin?" he asked simply. "Or are there any among the brethren who were not made aware from the very first that there can be no turning back from this path we tread? The oath will be yours to decide, for I would ask nothing of a man that he does not offer freely."

Hardin nodded. Of course Sydney would need to be certain how serious those with him might be, and how far they intended to go; to lead anyone into a life of such danger without that certainty would be irresponsible at best. His eyes still fixed on Sydney's, he obeyed.

Naturally, Sydney was not at all surprised. "What oath will you offer?" he asked as Hardin knelt before him on one knee. "What do you pledge - your assistance? Your allegiance? Your life itself? And who do you pledge it to?"

Hardin lowered his head, considering. He hadn't had the time to think it through enough to decide that yet. He still found it difficult to simply trust in the gods he could not see, and as he'd stated, the Dark terrified him despite his wish to learn more. By that same token, the idea of swearing an oath to those who served these forces did not seem right. His passion was for a great many things - justice among them, as well as purpose - but also a more simple wish that might never come to be. As much as anything else, it was that wish that inspired the words when he finally spoke, summing up all he could do for Sydney, all his hope lost and hope regained through Sydney, and even the promise that Sydney had refused to let him speak more directly the day before.

"You have given me my life and my freedom," he murmured. "I choose now to return these gifts to you. Every drop of blood in my body shall bear your name; should it spill out, it shall be a witness before the gods and the world that I belong to you. This I swear."

His head was bowed, his eyes upon the long grass at Sydney's feet, but he could feel the cold metal sliding across his scalp as Sydney's hand came to rest upon his head, accepting the oath. And perhaps accepting the implications that it held as well, for sharp steel fingers slid down past his ear to his throat, coaxing him to raise his head enough to see Sydney looking down at him with darkened eyes and the most serious of expressions.

"So be it," Sydney murmured, and he sank to one knee as well, taking Hardin's head carefully between his palms and leaning in closer, softly pressing his lips against Hardin's.

A kiss to seal an oath was not unheard of, but certainly this was not entirely ceremonial, for it lasted an instant too long, with a tenderness too inspired, and Sydney did not let go or straighten when the moment had passed. He remained as he was, gazing at Hardin with that somber darkness in his eyes, until they closed and he leaned forward again to accept the kiss Hardin offered so earnestly.

This time the kiss was lingering, and quickly followed by another, and then yet another. Hardin hesitantly raised a hand to reach out as Sydney's tongue danced lightly over his lips, and when Sydney did not pull away, he indulged himself in caressing the smooth skin of Sydney's back, tracing the line of his spine from shoulder to waist.

It was uncanny how Sydney seemed to know exactly what felt right, and Hardin too found himself intuitively slipping into a strangely familiar routine, accepting the touch of lips and tongue and teeth without question as his left hand rose to glide upward through Sydney's hair, gently caressing the back of his neck. As the kiss grew deeper, he felt almost dizzy, unable to comprehend anything besides the feel of Sydney on his skin and the sound of the breeze in his ears.

The moment could not last forever, though, and it was Sydney who retreated first. Still holding Hardin's head gently between his palms, he seemed almost reluctant to let go. Rather than the relief and hope Hardin felt at the reception of his oath, or the quickening of his breath from the physical acknowledgement that had accompanied it, Sydney's face gave away nothing of the sort. If his distant eyes held any expression at all, Hardin thought, it was more a look of sorrow than joy. Hardin might have tried to smile at him, to show him that it was all right, but something told him it would do no good, and so he did not.

At last Sydney stood, straightening as if nothing had happened. "There are provisions back at the camp, if you care for a bite," he stated. "Leftover bread and soup is not quite a feast to welcome our newest brother into the fold, but more palatable than foraged roots and berries, no doubt."

"Yes, I'll be along in a moment." Still slightly disoriented, Hardin remained on his knees to get his bearings as Sydney turned to go. Again Sydney's actions confused him, and he wasn't sure whether he was grateful for the reception he'd been given, or disappointed by the way Sydney now seemed to act as if nothing of importance had happened.

Starting up the rise that would lead to the top of the embankment, Sydney hesitated, but did not turn back. So faintly Hardin thought it could almost have been imagination, the wind carried back a quiet whisper: "Forgive me."

It did nothing to lessen Hardin's confusion, but it made him feel somewhat better regardless. "I don't mind," he called softly after the mage, who was momentarily lost from view behind a stand of young juniper as he continued on his way. He was never sure whether Sydney had heard him, for the mage did not emerge from the opposite side - and when Hardin followed a few minutes later, he was nowhere to be found.

* * *

_Gods, what does this mean?_

The wind was picking up as the night went on, omens of a storm to come, but Sydney cared little for what turmoil the clouds might bring. Turbulent emotions rolled within as well while he wandered the forest in the darkness, but if anyone had been present to see him, they would not have known. The mage had carefully schooled himself through the years to show nothing upon his face unless he chose, and now he had no use for such superficialities as expression. With no one to see, his face was blank and emotionless as he dropped to his knees in the grass, bowing his head in urgent, resigned prayer as the first faint rumble of thunder sounded somewhere off to the south.

_Hallowed Ones... forgive me. I knew that not much time remained, and there was no time to find another. I... I fear, from the oath he gave, that I may have disrupted Your divine plans with my own selfishness, if it is even possible for a man as I to do such a thing. ...It isn't, is it? Even if I had been certain..._ Sydney could not entirely keep himself from grinding his teeth at the thought, for certainty was something he had come to resent greatly since he'd been given the gift of prophecy. _...It does not matter. Either way it was selfishness, whether against You or against him. But all remains the same despite my efforts - You have won, I have lost, and there is no more for me to do but repent for my rebellion and continue onward. Tell me what must be done, and I shall do it._

A quiet chiming sound behind him told him that he was not alone, and her soft voice fell upon his ears, though none but he would have been able to hear it, for she spoke within his mind just as he had. _My dear prophet... what were you thinking to accomplish, anyway?_

A normal man might have smiled in gratitude, but Sydney merely said a silent thanks to the gods. "I am not sure, my Lady." He turned to look up with the Sight he had been granted as the ancient priestess' shade approached him, the vaguely glowing ornaments at her waist giving a faint, hollow jingling with each step. More than simply a forerunner, to him she had been a counselor, a mother, and occasionally more, but always she remained a friend above all else. To her, he could speak freely, as to no one else.

_My little rabbit, you have room enough only for your lettuces or your carrots,_ she chided him fondly. _If you had not chosen - rather, if he had not chosen for you - both would have withered away before your eyes._

"I know I have been selfish," he admitted. "At first, I thought I might free him. But..." The thought troubled him so that he was unable to put it into words. "...Now I wonder if that was my intention at all."

_You've managed to entrap both him and yourself, haven't you?_ Müllenkamp murmured silently, placing her phantom hand against Sydney's cheek comfortingly. _But he is stronger than you think - though he is quick to accept judgment, for he does not recall himself, his spirit will not yield._

"His body will." Sydney knew that for certain, and had for some time. Still, it seemed to cause his heart to tighten even more painfully when his Lady said nothing to contradict it; strange, the way he had not relinquished all his hope already.

_Would you really have been happier if he had gone? What of your love?_

The mage stared at her in spite of himself, but quickly rearranging his expression to something more characteristic of him, and gave her a knowing smirk. "I am afraid I'm not acquainted with such a concept."

_Oh?_ His Lady answered him with a smirk that was nearly the mirror of his own. _Then for what purpose have you drawn him so near? You have no shortage of those who would share your bed already..._

Sydney shook his head. "No, it is not lovemaking that interests me." It had occurred to him some time ago that he was dreadfully bored with making love to those among his followers who offered themselves. With them, it was... impersonal, really. An act of worship, and a blessing bestowed. Any passion was borne of their love for the gods, not for him. But personal passion was irrelevant, and his words were firm. "Nor love. It was not pursuit of him, in truth. When it is given to a man to know what I know, he learns to avoid such trifles. My love is for the gods, and for the mission They have given me - not John Hardin."

She raised an eyebrow at him shrewdly, and Sydney frowned; she was entirely too much like him at times. Often he wondered if that was why he had been chosen. _Have you forgotten? John Hardin has a place in your divine mission. And despite my interventions - which were rather improper of me, you realize, but you left me little choice - you nearly left that place completely vacant. On more than one occasion, and in different and obnoxious ways, no less._

"They were miscalculations. ...Mostly." Sydney did not want to think about it, honestly. That terrible night in Leá Monde, before Padric had contacted him through the mindspeak to say that they'd found Hardin in the streets of the undercity, Sydney had endured several minutes of the most painful guilt he'd ever experienced. But before he had heard Hardin's voice, he had been lost between hope that the man had escaped, and fear for what the consequences of that escape might be, for the both of them. "His soul has been torn to shreds by one kind of prison already. I did not wish to place him in another."

_Even if it is the will of the gods?_ She regarded him with another amused smirk. _You have dealt with this situation before, and you will do so again. And yet this time you fight it. Hmm... Why is it that a certain word keeps ringing out in my mind? A short word, much overused-_

"Stop that." Sydney wearily rested his chin in one metal palm. Even if she was right, it would still be better by far if he ignored it. All he knew was that he was very tired of watching it happen over and over, and this time it wearied him far more than usual.

_I know..._ An ethereal arm settled weightlessly across his shoulders as her unspoken words answered his. _The gods know as well, as they know all. They cannot fault you for it._

Sydney's eyes closed as he breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Lady."

_The weight of the world does rest upon you in an almost literal sense, however,_ she reminded him. _There is something greater than you or he at stake. And remember... he has already forgiven you._

"He did not know what I asked forgiveness for."

The priestess smiled, more softly this time. _If he did, it would have made no difference. His answer would have been the same._

It was true - Sydney could not dispute that - but it only drove the frustration deeper into his heart. "And so even if I did defy the gods, are we to have no choice, then? Are the godless allowed free will, while we who freely choose to follow Them are doomed by such concepts as 'fate' or 'destiny'?"

_An ironic question, coming from one who has forfeited even his soul in Their service._

"But _he_ has not," Sydney pointed out.

_The gods already know his heart. They know what he has chosen; indeed, They knew it long before he decided. Is it so different that he should swear to one devoted to Them, than to Them directly? The result is the same._

"...I understand." Sydney put aside the troubling thoughts as well as he could, and met her eyes with resignation. "What is it that They require of me in regards to him?"

_Only what comes naturally, little rabbit,_ she replied with a cryptic smile. _Or perhaps in your case, I should say unnaturally._

"Very droll, Lady, but that tells me nothing."

_Then perhaps that is your answer._ With that, she whirled about, her ornaments chiming and her scarves drifting through the air, and then she was gone.

Sydney considered for a time, sitting and pondering her meaning nearly until the sun began to rise, when the sound of Hardin's approach broke its way past the distant thunder and into his thoughts. Hardin seated himself quietly at Sydney's side, saying not a word, and they listened as the storm to the south passed them by without so much as a drop.


End file.
